


Plasticity

by Merlocked18, rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 17th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Art, Artist's Muses, Bernini - Freeform, Falling In Love, Italy, M/M, Romance, Sculpture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/pseuds/Merlocked18, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Early seventeeth-century Italy, Gian Lorenzo Bernini, an emerging young sculptor among whose patrons popes and cardinals can be counted, finds his David in a seemingly unprepossessing, but brave humble man. Arthur finds his love in the artist's muse, whatever chance and circumstance may have to say about it.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86





	Plasticity

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my thoughtful and wise beta Sillygoose20 for threshing this into shape and helping me with plot development and flow! She's been truly thorough and conscientious and she definitely knows what she's doing!!! Any remaining mistakes and oversights are fully my own!
> 
> This story was originally meant to be a merlin_reverse submission, but it's come a year late because life, unfortunately, happened to put spokes in my wheel. My artist is the fabulous Merlocked18, who inspired the story from start to finish with her exquisite, touching and vehement art. This is a story about artists and muses, about the touch of genius and the beauty it can create. Merlocked definitely has it all, that pure talent that draws you in. This story is all for her, because without her it wouldn't even exist. So belatedly, it's for you, M!

> Rome, January, 1633

The table Arthur sat at had twisted, curved columns for legs and pedestal feet carved in the shape of lion's paws. Heavy mouldings decorated the top section, while numerous drawers and compartments dotted the upright section of the piece of furniture. Grand cabinets, whose gold-leaf fronts were engraved with intricate floral designs, lined the walls. Mirrors framed by garlands of flowers hung on the brocaded walls, alongside maps of the old world and the new. A plethora of family portraits covered every spare inch of the room's partitions, their ruffled subjects staring with baleful solemnity into the dying light. Tall candles stood ready in heavy candelabra, waiting for the fading light of day, which glinted across the golden ornaments scattered across the room, to spend itself.

Arthur tilted the sheet of paper he was working on so it would be better illuminated by the scant light making it in from the western crossbar window. He was composing an important letter, and he tilted it this way and that until he was satisfied it contained no errors. Arthur continued writing the note, pausing every now and then so he could choose the most apt word, the most correct turn of phrase. He had almost finished what he thought was a very good sentence when Lord Astolat entered the room.

As always, he wore a blue doublet of glazed linen embroidered in a needle-lace pattern, with full sleeves with slits to show the white silk tunic beneath. A wired collar with lace trim adorned his neck, flush against skin reddened by constant chafing. His breeches were darker than his doublet and fastened up his legs with shiny silver buttons. “Arthur, have you completed the missive to King Charles?”

“Nearly, my Lord,” Arthur said, as he looked up at the man now standing by his side. “I was completing the finishing sentences.”

“Good, good.” Lord Astolat nodded to himself. “When you're done, do change.”

“Change, my Lord?” Arthur cocked an eyebrow.

“Scipione Borghese is hosting a reception in his villa in an hour. You will accompany me.” Lord Astolat scratched at a perceived blemish on his doublet. “I don't need to tell you how important the Borghese clan is to Roman society.”

Arthur was certainly aware. He hadn't served Lord Astolat for the past two years without learning a thing or two about Anglo-Roman relationships. “His uncle was the late Pope Gregory.”

“The same Pope who first raised the current occupier of the Holy See to the rank of cardinal priest,” Lord Astolat said. “The Borgheses and the current Barberini Pope are thick as thieves.”

Though he had heard all of this before, Arthur listened attentively. Lord Astolat wanted those in his employ to hang on his every word. It was just the way he was, and it paid to humour him. “Cardinal Borghese was so kind as to extend his invitation to all of my household staff, and with you being my personal secretary, I will need you to attend to me.”

No matter how much Arthur wanted to spend an evening by himself, warming his limbs by a cosy fire, or wandering the streets of Rome followed only by bright May moonlight, he knew he couldn't have that. Part and parcel of his job was acceding to Lord Astolat's whims. “I will be ready.”

“Good.” Lord Astolat locked his hands behind his back and walked around the room, eventually stopping at the leaded sash window that opened onto the street. “A carriage will pick us up at eight.” Lord Astolat cleared his throat with a few phlegmy noises and stared thoughtfully at the setting sun. “I'll leave you to finish the correspondence.”

Arthur set out to do that. With a few more courtly flourishes, he finished his letter and sanded it. He sealed it with bright red wax and summoned a page. He asked the lad to add the letter to the bag of correspondence that would go out in the morning. As the light in the chamber had become too spare, the youth also lighted the candles. “Thank you, Daegal,” he said, mindful of how important it was to treat everyone with kindness, even those of lower rank. There was a time when he had been perhaps less attentive to others, but life had taught him reversals of fortune were always possible.

Once Daegal was done, Arthur hurried upstairs to his room. It was on the top floor and, though not big, it was spacious enough for a single man with few pretensions. It wasn't as if he had brought many possessions with him from England, so there was little to clutter the space besides the sturdy, inelegant furniture Lord Astolat provided for his senior staff.

Opening the door to the armoire in the corner, he contemplated his clothes. He didn't have many formal wear options. While Lord Astolat required his attendants to always be neatly and decorously dressed, he didn't encourage excess. Not that any of his attendants had the funds to indulge in sartorial whims. Arthur himself had three ornate doublets that would be fit for this occasion. Two of them were from his youth as a country squire in England, overhauled by an able seamstress to fit his thirty-year-old self.

Arthur chose the red one because the colour was featured in his heraldic device. He laid it on the bed, and proceeded to use pitcher and bowl to wash. He then put on the fresh doublet and changed his shoes.

One of the luxuries he had been allowed was a half-length mirror that stood in a plain frame. Now Arthur contemplated his reflection in the mirror. He passed muster, he believed. The alterations in the cut of the doublet made it fashionable enough to the eyes of those who cared for such things, and allowed his muscled frame to move with ease, which was what mattered to him. Though he wasn’t particularly vain, the red flattered him and made him look more cheerful than he actually felt. He combed and scented himself before leaving his quarters.

As promised, the carriage awaited him in front of the palazzo Lord Astolat had rented. After he'd waited for his employer to climb in, Arthur followed.

They crossed a city blanketed with churches and basilicas, dotted with little chapels and grand cathedrals. In between them, rich palaces vied for space with small hovels and humble shop fronts: a rich tapestry of colour and light, of discordant harmony and warring beauty. Though evening had set in, marketplaces were still busy with crowds bustling this way and that; shoppers carried baskets full of their bargains, while sellers shouted the price of their wares. Horsemen jostled both each other and the crowds making their way across the narrow stone bridges arching over the roaring Tiber.

In a rattle of wheels over gravel, they passed the Porta Pinciana, with its marble arch and crenellated stone towers topped by walkways. Arthur should have marvelled at it. But Rome was full of ancient ruins that sprang up everywhere; some of them had been looted, their masonry stolen along with any other kind of statuary, mosaic or ornament that could be removed. He had seen so much of it, especially during his first carefree stay ten years ago, that he had lost his passion for all of it.

There had been a time when he had been in awe of every artwork and every landmark, when he had lingered around half-forgotten monuments and enthusiastically admired the artistry of ancient masters and new talents.

Thankfully ignored by his master, Arthur sighed. It was better not to dwell on the past, not to sink into remembrances that were too painful to contemplate. No, Arthur had moved on. He had put his best foot forward and he had come to hold a respected position in a great nobleman's household. He had to think about the here and now, about the current political situation, their tenuous position in Rome.

Ever since the reign of Elizabeth, diplomatic relations between England and the Papal States had been non-existent, the last ambassador recalled. But there had been contact between the two powers, of course. The current King, whom they loyally served, had, after all, got Pope Gregory's blessing to marry their current Queen, a catholic.

King Charles had sent Lord Astolat to Italy to sound out the political mood of the country, and though Lord Astolat was nominally no ambassador, he did mediate between the two powers from time to time. Charles had asked him to spend some time in Rome particular, for he was interested in the goings-on at the Vatican. Though he was a mere secretary, Arthur knew more than outsiders suspected. He was privy to information others would find valuable. But even though his job was a coveted one, he didn't know whether he wanted to retain it or not.

Most of the time he wished that his life would stop revolving around Italy, but this country seemed to draw him in, again and again. It was as if the land itself had a magnetic hold over him, like some sort of magic spell he could resist but not escape. He did have other options. He might not be a nobleman, but he had inherited a county retreat he could restore. The place had fallen into disrepair and wasn't what it had once been, for he had had to sell most of the land that came with it, but the house itself still stood, nestled deep inland and surrounded by a few acres of untidy woods and a garden run riot.

Yet he was here now, and he was used to doing his job conscientiously. If Lord Astolat wanted him to accompany him, Arthur would. It wouldn't be his favourite way to spend an evening, but he wasn't in Rome to enjoy himself. Not these days.

While deep in thought, Arthur hadn't realised they had left the city centre behind. The road, flanked by tall odoriferous trees, started climbing. The carriage slowed as the horses climbed the steep rise. Moonlight showered the hedges that bordered the path, making them appear like dark sentinels of this desolate district.

Before long they were up the Pincian Hill and entering a drive leading into the heart of a green enclave. The carriage stopped in the courtyard before the Borghese residence, queuing behind many similar vehicles. Footmen helped passengers descend and directed the coachmen to the coach house with some flailing of hands.

A prim, liveried servant opened the door to their own carriage and Lord Astolat descended, followed by Arthur. At the impetus provided by their coachman, the four horses attached to the wagon trotted forwards, disappearing into the remise.

Though they were somewhat early, guests in their finest already crowded the area, everyone vying to be counted among the first to enter the cardinal's mansion. A white portico gave access to the villa, flanked on either side by extensions off the main building. A terrace ran from one wing to the other, its length decorated with antique sculptures. The two-storey marble house was compact, sprawling squarely outwards. It emanated a sense of solidity as well as an aura of affluence, a patina of luxury.

A crowd thronged the main entrance, and even Lord Astolat had to join the queue of refined ladies and gentlemen waiting to gain access to Cardinal Borghese's inner sanctum.

Though he was used to opulence and refinement, had grown bored of it, the interior stunned an otherwise unmoved Arthur. The walls were made of multi-coloured marble that reminded him of the great monuments of antiquity. The floors were decorated with polychromatic inlays that dazzled the eye. The ceiling was covered in breathtaking frescoes, painted in colours so vivid they seemed more tangible than reality. Busts of ancient Roman personages adorned the great hall.

At first Arthur followed behind Lord Astolat as he socialised with the other guests. With Lord Astolat knowing a good part of the Roman elite, he frequently stopped to talk with this or that great personage. Some of them Arthur was acquainted with, so he smiled and nodded in recognition; others he had to be introduced to, so he bowed or kissed palms. It was a few minutes before the nattering, milling crowd of guests parted enough to allow them to catch a glimpse of Scipione Borghese himself.

Arthur had seen him before, when he was in Rome the first time, a decade ago. He had become more rotund, and his formerly pointed chin had lost its sharpness. His hair and beard had silvered, but other than that he didn't show many outward signs of aging. His gaze was as sharp as it had been and as animated.

Meanwhile Borghese moved among the throng with ease and grace, smiling left and right, his chin held up, his red cardinal’s robes rustling softly as he advanced. He stopped frequently to converse with various persons, his comments punctuated by the polite laughter of his interlocutors.

Before Arthur had quite prepared himself for the meeting, Cardinal Borghese had planted himself before them. “Lord Astolat, it's a pleasure to have you here.”

Lord Astolat bowed and kissed the cardinal's episcopal ring. “I'm delighted to have been afforded the opportunity to visit Your Eminence's villa.”

“You haven’t been here before?” the cardinal asked. “I entertain so extensively I can't remember.”

“No. We've met at the Vatican and at other social gatherings hosted by the nobility, but never here, Your Eminence.” Lord Astolat wore a pleasant, affable expression.

“Ah, yes indeed.” Cardinal Borghese toyed with his ring, whose golden band shone in the light of the hundred candles that brightened the space.

Lord Astolat then introduced Arthur to the cardinal. The latter said all the right words, but it was clear he had no interest in a mere secretary. Arthur felt sure His Eminence would forget about his existence the moment his eyes landed upon the next object of interest. His attention went in fact to Arthur's master then, for he said, “I hope you'll find something to like here, my dear Lord Astolat.” He gestured around, indicating the works of art that covered every corner of the hall. “There are works by Caravaggio, Raffaello, and Bernini here. The best of the best.”

As memories took to playing in his mind, Arthur went rigid. He had never forgotten Bernini. He couldn't possibly have. He could still see his friend in his mind's eye, with his deep dark eyes, which reflected his ardour and his genius, and his dark complexion, weathered by a southern sun. He could recollect his voice, which blended the cadences of Rome and Naples, and the way dust from cutting marble covered his hands. Of course, in spite of the fact that Bernini was one of the most gifted people he had ever met, he hadn't turned his thoughts to him in quite a while, for thoughts of Bernini brought with them an onslaught of other reminders which Arthur couldn't bear to examine.

No, he had put all that behind him, so he didn't consider himself remiss for not having dwelt on memories of his friend. He had got away with his soul intact and that was what mattered. He was a different man now. He had made himself harder, stronger, less romantic. Without a doubt he could easily admire his former friend's work without ill effect. He could still appreciate his great artistry, even if it was through its manifestations that his life had first changed.

Bearing this in mind, Arthur was polite to Borghese; he even expressed a wish to see all the works Borghese had collected over the years. Cardinal Borghese nodded with evident pleasure, suggesting he start in the first floor main gallery, where all the statuary was gathered.

“I just love that particular medium, the way it reveals the true nature of the human body,” Borghese said, before being hailed by an ecclesiastical guest wearing his weight in gold.

“You should listen to him,” Lord Astolat said, with a twitch of his lips. “He's a real connoisseur, though he's not above using questionable methods to get hold of his artefacts. He practically blackmailed poor d'Arpino; he got the law to drop murder charges against him in exchange for the surrender of his collection to our dear cardinal.”

Though the subject sounded downright intriguing, Arthur couldn't ask any more questions about the incident, for Lord Astolat was dragged away by some other acquaintances. Before going he'd said, “Do have a look around, Arthur. I doubt you'll find so much beauty gathered in one spot in the whole of Italy.”

Knowing that Lord Astolat would go and perform his diplomatic spiel, Arthur decided to take his employer's advice and look around. He was well aware of Scipione's reputation as an art patron. Since he had to be here, he might as well make the most of it.

Sauntering around, he first took in the ceiling: the colours, the compositions, the soft azure clouds skimming the feet of antiquity's heroes. Accepting a glass of wine from a servant carrying a salver, Arthur drank and moved on to the statuary.

The first artwork he took in was a depiction of classical myth. A young bearded man was carrying an older one on his shoulder; a child was hiding behind him, fear in his demeanour. From the various visual hints, Arthur guessed the young man was Aeneas fleeing Troy, the aged one his father, Anchises. And the child, of course, had to be Ascanius. What took his breath away, despite his current disinterest in aesthetics, wasn't the story connected to the art; it wasn't the Virgil myth the artist was retelling that caused his heart to stutter in his chest. Rather, what stunned him was the dynamism of the group, the attention to detail, down to the rendition of skin, smoother for the young, roughened for the old. What he was looking at was motion, pathos, empathy etched in marble.

This shouldn't have surprised him. He knew Bernini; he had seen his art before, though not this piece, nor any of those commissioned by Cardinal Borghese, at least not the completed versions. He was acquainted with his artistry, with his one-of-a-kind talent. He let his fingers skim across the cool stone, unable to resist, unable to keep his distance from the beauty before him as if it had some sort of hold over him, as if he might be subsumed by the tableau if he didn’t move on.

The next group he saw depicted a youthful man with the features of a god. He was running, touching the hand of a woman fleeing from him, her body straining forward as she tried to escape the touch of the deity, her feet becoming roots just as her hands were turning into branches. This scene too belonged to the repertoire of classical tradition, but what distinguished this piece from others of its kind was once again the way motion was represented, the manner in which the transient chaos was captured in the medium of stone. All details, from the anatomy of the muscles down to the rendition of cloth, were breathtaking in their verisimilitude, inspiring awe for the ingenuity involved. Bernini's figures radiated human emotion and an untouchable beauty that mesmerised the onlooker.

Any onlooker, Arthur told himself, even though no one had followed him here and all the statuary was a silent herald of beauty no one was admiring. The guests were all eating, picking apart oysters cooled in ice transported from the Alps and putting them in their mouths; or dipping rosy shrimp in dainty sauces; or sipping wine from tall and graceful glasses that clinked when they toasted each other. And while they partook they discussed politics, seeking out alliances, uncovering rivals, jockeying for favour that would come at the expense of others, all of them believing themselves masters of intrigue.

Why were they all busy with the mundane rites of this aristocratic world, lured by the glitter of those affiliated with the Vatican?

He wondered why no other guest had come to revel in the ingenuity behind these creations, to bask in the voluptuousness these forms exuded. These marble bodies had grace and charm, curves and folds and angles that had a life of their own. Their power of seduction was such that Arthur reached out and caressed a cheek of smoothest marble, his gesture one of sublimated longing.

Even if Arthur hadn't met the artist, he would have admired him for what he had achieved. Carried on by these thoughts, Arthur moved to the next work of art. It was a life-sized statue, the pristine purity of marble showing even in the candlelight. It represented a man in the first flush of youth, his slim body lightly muscled and perfect. He stood alert, poised for action, creases on his brow as he reached behind him to put a stone in his sling. A frown brought down the corners of his mouth; alertness and concentration oozed off him in waves. It was easy to tell that this was David, fighting off a Goliath who was not portrayed, yet whose aura permeated the stone.

But Arthur wasn’t thinking about origin stories. He could feel his blood rushing to his head in hot pulses. His heart seemed to swell in his chest, while at the same time it seemed to pump no vital blood in his veins. His head swam and his thoughts dispersed, but one nugget of truth made it to him: David was none other than the love of his life. Not the Biblical hero, of course. But the features depicted, the body shown, with a few idealisations thrown in here and there, was _him_. Arthur was looking at his hair and nose and mouth, at his pensive frown and unblemished skin. He was beholding features he hadn't seen in a decade. He was taking in the visage that had made him experience the most complete love he'd ever felt. The only love he’d ever felt.

The statue was so full of life, Arthur could expect it to move and enfold him in its arms. And, oh, how he recollected the touch of the person represented, the weight of it, the familiarity of it, the unspeakable warmth of it. Time unspooled, came undone, and he was once again a young man moved by love for the first time, a man on an adventure, a newcomer to Italy, exploring its true heart in the most metaphorical of ways.

In expectation of something, of seeing him again, of realising the world was about to crack, he stood stock-still, all his limbs paralysed by a spell of confused emotions. He was trying to master himself, to make himself react as though this was nothing, for he had surely moved past this, when someone touched him, alerting him to the necessity of appearing normal.

But he couldn't do it. As much as he wanted to forget, as much as he wanted to be made of stone like Bernini's statues, he was not made of cold elements, lacking anima. He couldn't be the man he had been but a moment before, the self-assured individual who moved about the world as though nothing could surprise him. The man who had enslaved himself to duty and called himself satisfied with his work.

No. His poise shattered. He dropped the cup of wine and watched with detachment as an aromatic stain spread across the floor.

*****

Rome, October 1623

On one side of the piazza, Palazzo Farnese rose with its square mass and double rows of identical windows, thirteen per floor. Ashlars framed its massive portal, while a cornice, designed by Michelangelo himself, surmounted it, infusing the building with grace and nobility. Half-columns with Corinthian capitals framed it, giving a noble character to the whole ensemble.

In line with the entrance stood an Egyptian granite tank, decorated with lions and the Farnese fleur-de-lys, a symbol of the power of a family that had birthed a pope and many other important personages.

On the right of the palazzo stood the bulk of the Gallo Palace, which belonged to the Pighini family and had been sketched by Baldassarre Peruzzi, a great of the preceding century. Close to it stood the little St Brigid Church with its convent extending either side, often thronged by Swedish catholics who fled their own country following the confiscation of their goods on the heels of the Reformation.

The piazza itself contained so much beauty, Bernini came here every time he needed inspiration. So many artists and architects had contributed to make it what it was; he couldn't fail to admire their genius. Each monument spoke of immense creativity and expressiveness of touch. There was a rousing aura about the place that affected everyone who passed through.

Farnese Square had everything a lover of artistry could ask for. It had noble palaces that spoke of the dignity of its possessors. It had fine paving so that mud didn't make a mess of shoes and carriage wheels alike. And the bridge across Giulia Street arched so prettily one wanted to paint it.

Perhaps Rome didn't have as much natural beauty as Bernini's own native Naples did. There was no bay surrounded by a glinting sea. The slope of Vesuvius didn't alter its panorama, making it starker and more dramatic. But Rome housed a great many artists, who decorated the city with glorious feats of invention. Moreover Rome had something Naples lacked: The Vatican. Popes loved to surround themselves with art, and such a love of beauty was shared by the entire curia, the relatives of its members, and the noble families who associated with them.

The thriving art market was the reason Bernini's own father had come here, bringing him along when he was no more than eight. Thanks to those rich commissions, he had lived in a manner befitting a gifted craftsman. He had bettered himself every day, and he had taught Gian Lorenzo how to paint saints and aristocrats, how to breathe life into marble. And while the Viceroy and families like the Neapolitan Ruffos had kept him in business, they were nothing compared to the thousand commissions that rained upon the Berninis in Rome.

Even now Gian Lorenzo was working with his father, building a fountain in Piazza di Spagna. But that wasn't the only commission Bernini had. He had something else in the works, and he had abandoned his father's mundane project in order to wander the city and gawk at the skillful creations of his contemporaries and predecessors. Only from them could he glimpse the true spirit of beauty, find the flame of inspiration.

Piazza di Spagna was too busy. It was on the way to the Bourbon Spanish embassy and the Trinità dei Monti church, a highly coveted destination for a great many of the city's believers.

Though Farnese square wasn't exactly quiet on market day, it wasn't particularly thronged either. Street sellers praised their wares, but they couldn't entice many customers. Here and there a would-be buyer stopped to look at an item, but there weren't a great many of them.

Stalls had opened at dawn under cloth awnings. They sold produce redolent of the fields from the nearby campagna. As he walked among the rows of them, Bernini spotted spiky artichokes and long sprouts of Catalogna chicory: the last batch before the true cold of winter set in. Sellers tied up these items with string and passed them to bent old ladies covered in layers of shawls pulled tight against the October wind, or younger matrons directing broods of five or six children along the lanes of the market.

Bernini spotted a salsify seller loudly hawking his wares. He sold both the common variety and the scorzonera one, its sandy black roots blooming in yellow flowers that made Bernini want to sketch his produce. Next to this booth was a smaller stand selling mushrooms. A large variety of them was displayed, from simple white buttons still covered in earthy grit to Romans, which you could find under any bush or tree around the Eternal City, and trumpet ones, with their thick meaty stems.

The last seller didn't even have a booth to call his own. He had only a brazier placed over flaming coals upon which a round vat was placed. Big round chestnuts filled the vat and released a pleasant smell into the air. The glowing coals lit up the chestnut seller's face, highlighting its pure angles and sharp eccentricities. He looked a little like a character from the Neapolitan nativity Bernini had seen at the Scolopi Church when he was a child. But the man was younger than those venerable characters, and had sweeter features that almost had a cherubic quality to them. His mouth certainly looked soft and yielding; his lips would have pleased Bernini's patron, Cardinal Borghese. His dark beauty had an enticing, elfin quality to it.

Bernini almost wondered whether he should sketch him; the young man had an arresting quality to him, after all.

Judging by the flow of customers, he wasn't having much success with his business. But he seemed to be putting on a brave face, smiling at every buyer as he shoved chestnuts that burned his fingers into makeshift paper cones. It was a riveting sight, reminiscent both of beauty and life's toil. But Bernini gave up on it. It wasn't a subject that would be of interest to the clergy. He'd be better off depicting his surroundings.

He sat on the edge of the great marble vat that adorned the square, then took out his drawing papers and his charcoal stub. He started with the contours, so as to get the dimensions right. He traced the main lines of the object he was sketching, careful of perspective and proportions.

He was developing a fine outline when the commotion startled him. When he was deep into his sketches, Bernini didn't usually pay attention to what was going on around him, but this time the noise was quite invasive.

“I told you, sir, I'll give you your chestnuts once I've served this child,” the chestnut seller said, in a tone that was half tolerant and half bellicose.

The impatient customer pushed the child from the queue that had formed. The child was small, with frail knees reminiscent of a colt's. The customer was as large as a door and possessed as much muscle as a bull in his prime. It didn't take a tactician to guess that the big fellow would get what he wanted rather than his just deserts. And as for the little one, he was in for a thrashing.

Bernini was considering helping the little boy, maybe by buying him his chestnuts after the bully had gone, when the seller himself moved from behind the brazier and came to stand right opposite the big fellow. Given that the latter was twice his size and large to boot, Bernini thought the odds favoured the big fellow.

The chestnut seller said, “Can't you see there is a child here? Reconsider your actions, friend. You need not bully anyone.”

The big fellow grunted so loudly Bernini heard it from where he was. “You dare speak to me like that, you weasel?” He took a step forward, flexing his arm muscles. In statuary he'd make a good dumb giant. “I want to be served first and you'd better do it, if you don't want me to disembowel you.”

Unexpectedly, the chestnut seller didn't back away. He crossed his arms and looked up at his opponent, his chin tilted skywards. “You can certainly try, my friend.”

For a moment Bernini closed his eyes. That was surely not going to end well. The chestnut seller would end up black and blue, if he got out of this alive. Bernini wasn't one for blood sports, so looking away made sense. But something compelled him to watch.

The big fellow grabbed the chestnut seller by the lapels of his shirt, and for a moment the poor seller had to stand on tiptoe so as to look into his rival's eye – and the seller was by no means a short man. “At least you're not tackling hapless children now.”

Letting go of the chestnut seller, the big fellow punched outwards, the air whistling as his fist moved. The chestnut seller ducked with the speed of a predator; the meaty fist missed him by a hand and half. Realizing he hadn't been hit, the chestnut seller was quick to put the hot brazier between himself and his rival. But the big fellow wasn't of a mind to let it go. He kicked at the brazier, which he sent flying along with those chestnuts that were still roasting.

Without wholly abandoning their positions, bystanders made space for the two combatants, by now clearly locked in a battle of wills. The child, who by now was sobbing, didn't remove himself from the fray, but at least the big fellow had forgotten him. He was too busy trying to knock down the chestnut seller, who was limber enough to dance out of the way at the last second. Bernini could not tell whether that was luck or taunting, whether the chestnut seller was just swift enough to avoid being hit or he if he was goading his adversary by proving he wasn't so easy to catch.

Either way the big fellow seemed to be stewing in rage. He veritably growled, indicating murderous intent. At his noises the crowd gasped, but didn't intervene. They were interested in the public row, and not willing to interfere. The chestnut seller, still smiling in a cocky way, lost something of his enthusiasm, but kept rushing out of the way of the bully's attacks, zigzagging left and right.

This could not last. Though the chestnut seller was fast and wily, he couldn't defeat this giant head-on.

When the big fellow jumped over the brazier, heedless of the heat, Bernini considered intervening. He wasn't a wrestler. He was an artist, his talents lying in the way of imagination. But he was also a n honourable man, one who wouldn't stand by when he was needed. He should do something about this.

Bernini was in the process of standing, leaving his art supplies on top of the vat he'd been sitting on, when the chestnut seller lifted a sack and hit the big fellow over the head with it. The sack must have been heavy, for the big fellow reeled, tottered and fell down till he was lying flat on the ground, his jaw slackening.

The little boy who had unwittingly started the confrontation kicked the downed fellow in the side. Though the action wasn't exactly fair, the crowd cheered.

With a smile painted on his face, the chestnut seller gave the boy the last of his wares. Then he quickly started raking up the tools of his trade. He likely wanted to get away before the big fellow came back to consciousness.

Before the chestnut seller could disappear on him, Bernini hurried over to him. “Hey there, don't go!”

The chestnut seller looked from him to the prone form of the bully. He appeared to be of two minds about whether to escape now or wait. Surely, it wasn't wise for him to stay, but something kept him where he was.

Bernini made use of the reprieve. “You did a good thing, there.” He eyed the recumbent big fellow, who was twitching now but not standing up. “What say you to a glass of sweet wine?”

The chestnut seller arched an eyebrow. “I don't usually take up offers from strangers. What's in it for you?”

Bernini had to give it to the chestnut seller: Rome was a hive of vice and debauchery. Because he served clergymen, Bernini knew that well. So he didn't take the chestnut's seller reaction amiss. He would be wary too, if their positions were reversed. “Nothing.” That wasn't completely true, but it didn't stray far from the realm of veracity. “Besides, I frankly think you deserve some kind of reward. That fellow needed to be taught a lesson.”

“Only if you give a little something to the poor boy.” The chestnut seller inclined his head at the child, who was standing near his savior, eating the chestnuts he’d been given, hoping for some reward for the courage shown in not deserting the field.

Bernini gave the child a few coins, and the child, still wide-eyed from the excitement, made a little bow and scarpered off. As he watched him disappear into the crowd, the chestnut seller grinned. By then, however, the big fellow was starting to move. In a minute he'd be up and about, and furious too.

As a result, the chestnut seller hoisted his equipment and took off at speed, calling after him, “I accept your offer.”

The winery they found was far away from Farnese Square to ensure they were safe from the big fellow. The place was full and warm, with an opening to a cobbled back street that went on and on. The patrons, all of them men, laughed and drank, sang and caroused. Servants dashed to and fro bearing trays laden with full cups.

Over their own cups of sweet moscato, Bernini discovered the chestnut seller's name. It was an unusual one, Merlin, after the bird. It was a name his mother had found in a book of Breton tales, one she'd liked, and Merlin had preferred it to the nicknames his acquaintances had wanted to give him. It fit him, Bernini found. Merlin had all the pluck of the avian creature, all of its daring and bravado. It was courage of the youthful kind – Merlin could not be more than twenty-two or twenty-three—but it was tempered, Bernini thought, by some kind of instinct for good causes.

“But enough of me, painter,” Merlin said, eyeing Bernini's half-finished drawing. “Why were you sketching in Piazza Farnese?”

“I'm not a painter,” Bernini replied, earning himself a questioning glance. He gave Merlin one in return. What he saw was pleasing to the eye. Merlin had an unorthodox beauty made of facial angles that warred with the softness of his lips and eyes. His dark hair had the curl Bernini was used in seeing in ancient Roman statuary, with the unruly pattern typical of someone who wasn't fond of the comb. Overall, Bernini liked what he saw. As to the question he'd been asked, he patted the unfinished drawing, which would probably stay that way. “Not just. I'm also a sculptor.”

Merlin tilted his head. He looked like a curious bird, with a light in his eyes that was both inquisitive and amused.

“I have a workshop.” Bernini found himself explaining. “I started off assisting my father, who's an architect and a sculptor, in his endeavours. I still do from time to time.” He took a large sip of his sweet wine; it was both heady and comforting. “But I have my own business now.” Bernini trusted he wasn't bragging. He hadn't meant to. “I have patrons who enjoy statuary.”

Merlin leaned in, his wiry arm with its defined musculature flat on the table. “What kind of statuary do you do?”

“Whatever my patrons commission me to do.” At the beginning Bernini had chafed at the limitations, but he'd learnt how to please his clients while staying true to his own artistry. “What I think they would like.”

Merlin leant his head on his slender hand. It was a nice hand, with a scholar's refinement, all long digits and wide palm. There were calluses on it, so it wasn't an aristocratic palm, but Bernini could work with that. He didn't necessarily need noble subjects so much as aesthetically pleasing ones. “How do you know what they would like?”

“Well, they have expectations.” This was a complicated subject and Merlin wasn't an artist, yet Bernini had a feeling he might understand. It wasn't because Bernini thought him skilled in the arts, or well read. He probably wasn't. But he had a spark, an interest in those around him, that made Bernini believe he would get it. “Art is done in a certain way. It follows rules.” He let his fingers worry the rim of his cup as he explained. “You tell classic stories or depict religious themes. When all else fails you produce a bust of your employer—a flattering one.”

Merlin’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “You must make a lot of people appear better than they are.”

Bernini acknowledged that with a small shrug of his shoulder. “Don't you entice your customers sometimes?” He attempted a grin too, though his moustache probably hid it. He would have to trim it soon. “When you're not beating them up, that is.”

“Of course I do.” Merlin lowered his eyes, toying with the mug of wine. “I pay compliments to the ladies, and the gentlemen too.”

Bernini reacted to the frank gaze Merlin sent his way, recognising it for what it was. He was a man of the world, he had seen much and he understood hints. His social circle was made up of various sorts of individuals, and most didn't care about the dictates of the law or the Church. Even the Church itself didn’t always follow certain rules. “Then you'll understand what I mean.”

With a swift nod, Merlin picked up the conversation again. “Well, what are you working on?”

“I have a commission.” Bernini couldn't help but think of his patron. Even now he would be sitting in his great villa, surrounded by exquisite art and expecting more. “It's an interesting one and I’ve already started on the piece, but...”

As if he had sensed what was wrong with Bernini, Merlin's eyebrow climbed upwards. “Don't tell me you've given up!”

Bernini hadn't. He never would. Quite apart from the fact that he would be richly rewarded for a job well done, he was committed to his art. He wanted to produce something beautiful, something that would please and stun. “I'm a little...” Stuck was the word, but Bernini wouldn't allow himself to use it. “My ideas are shifting. I don't base my work on preparatory sketches, for they don't capture my vision, so I go with the flow.”

“Seems to me like you need more than one drink for that.” Merlin toasted him with the rest of his wine.

“You're right.” There was nothing like seizing the day, after all. “That's why I have an offer for you.”

Merlin couldn't have appeared more confused. “What have I got to do with this?”

“Back in the square”—Bernini tilted his head at the winery's exit—“you gave me an idea.”

Mirth danced in Merlin’s eyes. “I scarcely did anything.”

“I beg to object.” Bernini had seen enough to know what he wanted, to have made vibrant plans. “I want you to pose for me.”

Merlin's eyes rounded with surprise. Their expression was so telling, Bernini almost wanted to immortalise it. His hand drifted toward his sketchpad before he brought it back to his now empty cup of wine. “Pose for what?”

“A statue,” Bernini said, not wanting to make too much of a mystery of it. He enjoyed playing games with this new friend, but he cared too deeply about his art to jeopardize it. “A piece of classical inspiration.”

“You're joking.” Merlin shook his head and waved his hands about. “Must be.”

“I'm not.” Bernini wanted to convey how serious he was about this. He wanted to make sure Merlin saw. “I will persuade you if you give me the chance”

****

Rome, 1633

Arthur fought against the flow of guests moving towards the interior of the villa. He passed a stalwart gentleman who seemed to have made a point of becoming a quiescent obstacle. He tried not to trip over the ladies' trains. And he attempted to avoid the bustling waiters, who bore their trays and salvers on their shoulders. At one point he collided with a mime capering around the room, but before long he had made it out of the house and into the night.

Lanterns shone on the drive, illuminating the line of carriages idling around it, their drivers likely off to the nearest tavern. Out of those who had remained close to their vehicle and were milling around the drive, Arthur couldn't spot Lord Astolat's. Likely the coachman had been given a few hours off and was to be found in the nearest tavern gorging himself and guzzling wine. That was immaterial to Arthur. He would walk.

As he moved away from the house, the festive noises died down. It should have helped him think, but it didn't. His thoughts were a cacophony, louder than any sound a collection of people could make. He tried to suppress them; after all, he had succeeded in doing so for the past ten years. Yet suddenly it was no longer as easy as it had been before to master his mind and bring his emotions under control.

He tried to concentrate on the road ahead, on the spiralling drive bordered by trees, on the chirping of the birds hidden in their branches. Without carriage lanterns and flambeaux, it was dark along the drive, and he had to be careful where he put his feet. But he couldn't even focus his attention on his own safety.

So he stumbled on, slowed by the darkness, memories welling inside him. He slammed the door on them, wishing he could submerge them forever. From time to time he spied the moon peeking out from the cluster of branches above. It was a calm night, not wild, not unruly. He tried to match his feelings to it, but he did not prevail. He could only shake his head and breathe deeply and try by force of will to stem the flood of old recollections.

When he got back to the Porta Pinciana, he left solitude behind. This area of town was much more crowded, as awake at night as it was by day. Rough types gathered around the cheap wine shops, their clothes threadbare. Beggars asked for alms, sitting at the base of the great Roman construction. The better sort of gentlemen caroused equally loudly, though their appearances matched their rank, if not their state of inebriation. Of women there were precious few. Ladies of status wouldn't promenade themselves at this hour; those whose circumstances were less exalted returned home after a day of toil, or solicited those men who looked like they could afford it.

Arthur was about to pass under the arch of the Porta, when a young woman came up to his side. She was a blonde with hair messily arranged in a precarious bun. There were rings under her eyes, indicating a severe lack of sleep. Her clothes were a strange, unfashionable mix of utilitarian and racy.

Before Arthur could press ahead, she took his arm. “Going anywhere this fair night?”

“Home,” Arthur said, once he'd recovered from his surprise.

“There's a nice little place round here,” the woman told him, still clinging to him. Though there was a tear in her bodice, she smelt nice and all her clothes fit her well. “We could have a nice drink, a little chat.”

Arthur looked down at her. “I'm not looking for that kind of entertainment, signora. Pray excuse me.”

She laughed, but it wasn't a mocking laugh. She sounded genuinely amused, diverted by Arthur's words. “There aren't many who call me that.”

Arthur blinked. “I'm sorry if I offended you, but I have things on my mind, and I must get home.”

The young woman didn't let him go. She walked her fingers up his arm as she redirected his steps. “I can spot love woes from a mile off.” She winked. “Believe me, it's practically my trade.”

“Nevertheless.” Arthur tried distancing himself from her, but she clung to him rather tenaciously.

“I know what you need.” She slowed her pace and looked up at the moonlit sky. She was pretty in the way of the young, with a brightness to her that her profession had not erased. “Trust Enmyria.”

“I'm sure you're wise in the ways of the world,” Arthur said, abandoning his futile attempts to physically free himself from her clutches. “But I seek solitude.”

“You do not!” She let go of him to put her hands on her slender hips. “You need company.”

Arthur made as if to speak, but she placed her hand on his mouth. Arthur supposed he had nothing to lose by surrendering, and maybe she'd take his mind off his recurrent thoughts. “Only to chat.”

Somehow he found himself in the kind of establishment he hadn't frequented in over a decade, at least since his youth in England. The lights were low, the patrons loud. Dirty cups lined the bar, but no one gathered them up to be washed. The tavern owner was busy teasing both customers and serving girls.

Wanton young women sat in the laps of the regulars, their arms resting on their shoulders, their mouths at their necks, hands fondling them. They were coaxing them into buying more drinks for them, whispering sweet nothings designed to get the punters into the private rooms upstairs. Some customers were groping the girls, sliding their hands under their skirts, their heads buried in the girls' bosoms.

Arthur tried not to look at the scenes of debauchery playing around him. Instead Arthur tried to focus his gaze on the surface of the wooden table that lay between himself and Enmyria. Before he could stand up and beat a retreat, Enmyria had provided them with a half jug of Malmsey wine.

“Ah,” Arthur said, inhaling the scent that wafted from the container. “A drink of great portent.”

“What?” Enmyria wrinkled her nose. “It's just sweet wine from Greece.”

“They drowned a duke in Malmsey wine once,” Arthur said, before realising Enmyria likely had no knowledge of English history. “But of course that means nothing.”

“Don't beat around the bush,” Enmyria said, her eyes glinting with a mixture of curiosity and understanding. “You're nursing a love disappointment.”

She had clearly seen through him, Arthur realised. He had barely spoken, but she had understood. Arthur guessed she saw many men like him, seeking consolation for their regrets. But his situation was rather different. “It's an old one. I should have gotten over it by now.”

“You don't look like you're over it.” Enmyria arched an eyebrow, her features revealing what she thought. “Maybe talking to me would help.”

“Is that what you want?” Arthur's mouth twisted involuntarily.

“I'd rather talk than lie back and think of the Pope.” Enmyria followed that with a laugh. “Don't worry, I won’t charge you much.”

Arthur nodded his head. There was no obvious reason why they shouldn't do this. These were the ordinary goings on of a place such as this, and Arthur passing on the chance would be picked upon. Enmyria must have guessed what he was thinking or his face must have been sadly plain to read, for she stood, plumped her skirts, and made for the stairs, winking at him over her shoulders.

With a creak of the chair, Arthur gathered himself to his feet. The barkeep nodded knowingly as Arthur moved towards Enmyria.

She led him up the stairs and down a corridor ornamented by a mauve runner that was faded and stained in multiple places. Moans and grunts echoed along the length of the hallway in a symphony of lewd sounds that mixed together jarringly.

With a mock curtsy, Enmyria opened the door to a moderately sized chamber. He'd expected a bare and dingy room, but Enmyria's chamber wasn't that. She didn't have much furniture, that was true, but fine fabrics decorated the space. Peach curtains patterned with green shut out the view of the street. Azure linen pillowcases sheathed four plump pillows. And a knitted cloth covered a small table, over which odds and ends were placed. Enmyria's personality shone here, in the tiny touches permitted her, though it merged with the functionality of the room's fixtures.

Enmyria sat on the bed with her back to the wall, her feet on the floor.

His limbs heavy with a kind of tiredness of the spirit, Arthur lowered himself down, taking the end of the bed for himself and thus dislodging a few pillows, but still keeping his distance to show he had no ulterior motives.

“It happened ten years ago.” Arthur hadn't meant to talk. He had never mentioned _him_ to anyone, and it wasn't just because it was a secret. It was also because he emotionally broke down every time he considered his past. “My head should be mended. The matter should be dead and buried.”

“It's still eating away at you, mark my words.” She nodded to herself and then pointed at him. “Oh, yes, I can tell; I'm an expert when it comes to men.” She made a face. “So you'd better fess up about your lost love.”

Enmyria's words led Arthur to undergo a swell of emotion he hadn't experienced in years. Usually, he was quick to tamp that down. He made sure not to dwell on memories, not to fixate on regrets. He had a plan for what to do in life. He'd work; he'd make sure his days weren't idly spent and that he lived honestly. He'd told himself that that was more than enough. That had been the plan ever since he'd lost him. But now he couldn't do what he'd always done in similar circumstances.

Perhaps this was because he was back in Italy. Maybe it was because he had been maudlin to begin with. Maybe it was because such emotions sapped a man's strength. He just couldn't rein it in. He gave in to the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day, falling back so he was lying prone on the bed, his eyes on the ceiling, and plunged into his memories so that the world around him paled in comparison.

****

Rome, 1623

The stairs were narrow and rickety, the steps wooden rather than the stone Arthur was used to. The ceiling was coffered and painted with thistles, designed to line up with the dark board-and-batten panelling, which came up to waist height. The rest of the walls were whitewashed plaster.

When they came to the first floor, Bernini told Arthur, “In here. I made this my studio.”

Arthur could see why. Light flooded the entire open space, illuminating statues and busts, canvases and the scant furniture scattered around them. Some of his oeuvres were clearly works in progress, the final shape sometimes discernible, sometimes not. Others were finished, only waiting to be delivered to this patron or that.

A particular statue stood at the centre of the floor, right between the two biggest windows. Sunshine showered it, giving the marble an ethereal aura, its dust sparkling in the air.

Arthur circled it, studying it with close attention. He couldn't tell what it was meant to represent yet. A male form, that was certain. He could detect the lean flanks and a shapely long leg placed in front of an as yet unformed mound.

“What is this going to be?” Arthur asked, afraid to touch the object for fear of ruining it. Though he had known Bernini a while, for the man moved in the best social circles, Arthur had never been to his studio before and found it a wholly novel sight. He could only think that Bernini, with whom Arthur had willingly traded in repartee, was now promoting him to his circle of friends.

“A commission for Cardinal Borghese.” Bernini dabbed at the sweat on his forehead, for the day was hot. “It's going to be David, slinging a stone at Goliath.”

Now Arthur had been told, he could begin to guess what the final pose would be like. David's torso was twisted as if in preparation for some great physical effort. He could see the phantom traces of muscle, the hint of shape. Arthur wasn't a particularly imaginative person; the gift of fancy wasn't his. But even his moderate sense of artistry could be stirred by Bernini's work, and the sculpture wasn't even finished.

Arthur was about to comment when a man strode in wearing a bright smile, hair tousled and face darkened by soot. “Am I late?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “I'm getting ready, don't fret.”

“And you are?” Arthur arched an eyebrow at the new arrival. There was something about his easy way with an artist of Bernini's calibre that almost offended Arthur. Everybody had a place in the world, and surely someone like Bernini occupied a high one by virtue of his gifts.

“Merlin.” Merlin displayed great unconcern as he started taking his clothes off piece by piece.

Taken aback, Arthur was afraid he was staring.

“He's my model.” Bernini looked from Merlin to Arthur. “He's my David.”

That, Arthur supposed, explained the nudity. It was certainly unexpected and Arthur was more than a little embarrassed, but it made sense. What didn't was Merlin's lack of shyness about it. And, truth be told, Arthur's excessive discomfort. He wasn't totally unused to it so he didn't see why he was reacting so, with heat climbing to his face and sweat beginning to drip from his temples, plastering his hair to them.

The model – Merlin – wasn't bad looking, so gazing at him wasn't a chore. Perhaps he was a little less muscled than the statue was – statuary dealt in ideals – but he was nonetheless attractive. Yet Arthur would feel more at ease if Merlin were fully clothed.

Merlin shook his head at Arthur's evident self-consciousness. Parading his body with utter unconcern, he crossed the studio space and placed himself on a little wooden platform, assuming a javelin thrower’s pose that was common in classical antiquity.

Ever since Merlin had come in, Arthur had been of half a mind to walk out. After all, his interest in this place was based on Bernini, whom a lot of connoisseurs had tagged as a great creator of art. Many friends of Arthur's family had recommended his work. Bernini was supposed to become a real master artist, and Arthur had received suggestions to befriend the man. But Bernini was appreciative of his model, looking at him with the spark of interest and invention. He probably wouldn't appreciate Arthur fleeing the workspace.

Bernini was shaping the marble with his hands and the tools of his trade: a chisel, a light hammer with a blunt end, and a rasp, its surface coarse to help smooth out little details in the stone. As he worked, he gazed at his reference with intense interest, his features alight with a trace of creative genius.

Arthur followed his gaze and consequently looked at Merlin too. And he paused. There was an ease and nonchalance in Merlin's relationship with nudity and the space around him. That he had already observed, but he found it less alienating and more enchanting than before. Merlin appeared to enjoy the sunlight warming his skin and the act of posing as well. Though he had to stay mostly still, he showed no inkling of boredom, no annoyance with his position. Though Arthur was sure that David wouldn't be smiling in the finished oeuvre, Merlin was. And when he stepped out of his pose to stretch for a minute, a still mirthful expression dwelt on his face.

Somehow, he appeared to know when it was wise to speak and interrupt Bernini and when it was better to hold his peace so that the artist could work.

Even though the final shape of the statue was only to be guessed at, Arthur knew he was witnessing the birth of a masterpiece. He felt the air vibrating with creativity, with sparkling ingenuity. But he also sensed Merlin's enjoyment of his task. So for some reason Arthur stayed longer than he had anticipated. He believed in the significance of the moment, and a subtle sense of excitement worked its way through him.

Even if Merlin was busy holding his pose, he somehow understood the sensations that flooded Arthur, for he smirked. That too was a look Bernini's David wouldn't be sporting. It fit Merlin well, though.

Arthur should have gone then. He should have felt provoked, goaded. He should have battled Merlin in defence of his dignity. But that was a war he had already waged and lost. Merlin’s nudity and presence in the atelier didn’t bother Arthur anymore.

When he wanted to, Merlin could school his features into those of a heroic character. And when he did, he imbued that personage with strength and humanity. Bernini noticed too, and he poured even more vitality into the shape emerging from the marble, made it real in a way Arthur hadn't seen before, not even in Bernini's own work, which was on display in churches and private residences.

When time for a break came, Arthur didn't go up to Bernini, as he might have imagined himself doing. Instead, while the latter was busy cleaning his hands of marble dust, he went to Merlin.

Starting a conversation with him wasn't easy. Firstly because he had initially approached Merlin in none too kind a way, and secondly because Merlin didn't think it fit to dress again. Instead he slung a towel over his shoulder and poured himself a glass of water from a nearby jug.

Having cleared his throat a couple of times, Arthur said, “So how did you meet Bernini?”

“I knocked down a fella in Farnese square,” Merlin said, eyes glinting with amusement. “With a sack of chestnuts. Bernini was there; let's say that we found each other agreeable.”

Frankly, Arthur didn't know whether he was being had. His Italian wasn't up to scratch, and Merlin's manners made him think there was something vaguely outrageous in his statement. He therefore stayed non-committal. “Hmm. And was Bernini the fellow you knocked down?”

Merlin tilted his head back and laughed, revealing the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple. “No. But he was in the square when it happened and he liked what he saw.”

“I see. And how do you like working for him?”

“At first I found it strange.” Merlin's face showed what he'd really thought. “But then I got used to it.”

“Like being a hero, then?” Arthur found himself teasing Merlin without any real intention to. He didn't know exactly why. Maybe he was doing this because Merlin had built a rapport with Bernini more quickly than he'd done, and he wanted to prove himself capable of equal wit. Or perhaps it was because there was something about Merlin's attitude that caused him to. It didn't matter. He let himself act without overthinking it.

“No more than the next person.” Merlin shrugged easily. “Though I must admit there's something about being made into stone that's... interesting.”

Arthur had a real curiosity about Merlin's answers. “Want to be immortalised by art?”

“I'm not sure.” Merlin grinned. “I come with a lot of faults.”

“Our most famous poet once wrote, 'But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st.’” Arthur wasn't good at reciting poetry. His skills were much more mundane, relating to governance, but he had a point to make, so he made it. “ _Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade_.” He recited as well as he could, attempting to make an impression. “ _When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee._ ”

Merlin laughed, his eyes dancing with some untold emotion. “Are you saying Bernini is making me famous. Is that it?”

“I'm saying Bernini”—Arthur nodded at him as he moved towards them—“can certainly make people eternal.”

“Honest to God, I just want to help him out,” Merlin said.

Before Bernini could quite get to them, Arthur hurried out the words he'd meant to say. “We should discuss this. Over a proper glass of rose water.”

“You want to take me to the tavern?” Merlin tilted his head rather dramatically.

“Perhaps.”

Bernini had joined them by then. He started telling Merlin about what he wanted out of the next posing session. Merlin listened carefully, his attention focused on the master, and he nodded his head. But when Bernini had turned his back on them, Merlin whispered, “I'll come. After all, you owe me for your supercilious attitude.” He winked and went to his spot to take up his pose yet again.

Arthur had no rejoinder.

“Want to stay and watch?” Bernini asked of Arthur, his lips turned up, though he was already starting to focus on his plans for his art. “Perhaps you'll learn a trade, my friend.”

“I'm no artist,” Arthur replied, ignoring the lighthearted dig at his gentlemanly status, which made of those who held it men of no specific calling at all, “but I'll stay and stand witness to your genius.”

*****

1633, Rome

When Arthur struggled out of his memories and focused on his momentarily forgotten surroundings, he felt less distraught than before, and Enmyria, who'd apparently silently watched him muse, saw that. He could tell she was wise to what he'd believed his secrets, because her gaze was full of wisdom, the hard-won kind.

She shook herself and dug a cobwebbed flask from under the bed's frame. She applied her teeth to the cork and spat it out with a chuckle. She drank a pull and encouraged Arthur to talk some more, and in this room, with its personal touches, with mementos of Enmyria's personality, he found he could speak, open up.

“So that's your lost love,” Enmyria said at length, though Arthur hadn't shared all of his memories, and most certainly hadn't revealed Merlin's name. “Well, let me be blunt. Why aren't you together?”

That was certainly a complicated tale to tell, and Arthur, though in his cups, wasn't going to share.

“Look, unless it's death that's come between you—” Enmyria paused so that Arthur couldn't ignore her words. “—I'd try and get your true love back.”

By the scant light of the candles strewn about Enmyria's room, Arthur contemplated the flask Enmyria had passed him. He had glugged most of the contents, and what remained was the sticky sediment that lay at the bottom. “It's been ten years. I wouldn't even know where to look.”

Enmyria pinned him with a perceptive gaze. “If you cared, you'd do anything.”

Arthur looked up from contemplating the bottle. There was a chance Enmyria wasn't wrong.

****

Rome, 1623

The alley was narrow and unpaved, as some minor streets in Rome were. Staircases led to the backs of houses that were connected together by walkways as well as laundry lines. Grey sheets hung like curtains, catching the light of day, which highlighted the rips and threadbare patches in the fabric.

Laundry dangled shy of puddles out of which strays, both feline and canine, drank. They darted furtively back into the shadows whenever startled by a passerby—for the alley was a known shortcut—and slunk back into the darkness of the many basements that were part of the buildings.

Merlin gave his apple a bite and leant against the nearest wall, crossing his legs at the ankle. A mouse scuttled along the length of wall, and Merlin raised an eyebrow. The rodent had just rounded a corner, when Arthur appeared at the other end of the back street.

Merlin's eyebrow remained arched. Arthur looked so out of place. His silver-embroidered doublet was brand new, still stiff from scant wear. The lace ornamenting of his undershirt flourished above his collar and at his wrists. His hose was a pale colour, which would swiftly be soiled if Arthur hung about in places like this one.

“What?” Arthur met Merlin's expression with a similar one. “Am I late?”

“The bells of Santa Maria della Scala haven't tolled yet, so no.”

“Then what's wrong?” Arthur was pouting, his face stiffening with nascent dismay. “I don't understand. If you didn't want to accept my invitation, then you could have safely declined it.”

Merlin pushed off the wall. “Come with me,” he said, finishing his apple and throwing the core to the ground, where animals would scavenge it.

Without any hesitation, Arthur followed him, though he asked where they were going.

They passed Santa Maria della Scala and the monastery that stood close to it. A beggar mounted the steps of the church and set himself down on the topmost one. He was dressed in tatters and his skin was mottled with dirt and some skin disease. But all the same when he held out a hand for coins, Arthur dropped silver into his palm.

Merlin hadn't expected that. Arthur appeared like any other patrician Merlin had ever met. But he seemed to have a penchant for acting differently. Despite his getup, which engendered certain expectations, Arthur acted humbly and with his heart.

He smiled when the beggar showered him in blessings. He shrugged his shoulders as if he hadn't just given the man on the stairs of Santa Maria the coins necessary to survive and clothe himself for weeks. Even the clergy weren't so generous. Arthur had just given away all that in exchange for nothing but a kind word.

Merlin's plans changed. Arthur was acting in ways Merlin couldn't have predicted based on their meeting at Bernini's. Therefore it followed that Merlin should entertain him differently. He didn't advertise his misjudgement. He had his own foolish pride.

So he led Arthur onwards, straight ahead towards the Porta Settimiana, which rose at the apex of the rough triangle formed by the crumbling town walls, and westward towards the river and the Sisto Bridge, which arched above the flow of the Tiber. In the distance they could see the Dome of Saint Peter's with its white cupola reaching for the sky.

Though Arthur stopped to admire his surroundings the way most foreigners did, Merlin had other aims. With a smile painted on his face, he tugged at Arthur's arm. He probably shouldn't have. That was costly fabric and Merlin's hands were perennially dirty with soot. But he did nonetheless, and Arthur didn't seem bothered, just taken out of his reverie. As for Merlin, the simple touch galvanised him.

He led Arthur down the stairs that led to the quay, where a colourful group bivouacked in the shade of the bridge next to an open fire pit. They leant over it, fanning its flames, their hands held out for warmth and comfort. Some were vagrants, who travelled from city to city in search of better foraging grounds. Others were poor, but had a roof over their heads to return to. They just liked meeting their friends in front of the fire.

Together they laughed and caroused, told stories of their many adventures and comforted each other over their misfortunes. It was indeed a motley group, and for that reason Merlin loved every single member.

When they spotted him, they raised their hands in greeting, waving them happily. Merlin returned the salute, though he noticed that Arthur had slowed down somewhat. He did look as out of place here as he had in the alley earlier today, but Merlin now knew him better, and trusted that he would somehow fit in.

Nonetheless, to quieten any possible misgiving, he said, “Don't worry. These are all old friends.”

Arthur took it all with good grace and offered up a smile for his new acquaintances.

When they joined the group, Merlin was feted by his old friends. He'd never been shy; his situation in life didn't make it possible. Suffering the stings of embarrassment had often been the least of his worries, especially during hard winters, when his main preoccupation had been putting bread on his table. Born to labourers, he'd never had much, and since striking out on his own, he'd had to learn to make of his openness a kind of shield. If you smiled at the world it was bound to smile back at you. The conviviality of his friends from the bridge, however, always made him a little self-conscious. They had it worse than he did, and yet they were so generous with their company.

Once they were done with Merlin, they started contemplating Arthur as if he were a very strange object. Introductions were clearly in order. So as to shepherd him forward, Merlin placed his hand on the small of Arthur's back. He didn't do it knowingly. He didn't exactly choose to. But the moment he did, he felt an awkwardness he hadn't known he was capable of. “This is Arthur,” he said before he could stumble over the words. “A new friend from a far country.”

The men and women in the camp stared and goggled at Arthur. Some laughed and asked whether that country had gone to the dogs like the Papal States.

Merlin didn't have the answer. He had vague ideas about Arthur's country. While he liked fantasising, he didn't wonder about far-flung places that bore no relation to his daily life. So he hemmed and hawed until Arthur explained.

“A King rules there, called James,” he said, to the displeasure of the company. Those who lived by and around the bridge didn't like kings and prelates, soldiers and guards. Arthur seemed to notice that his words had had no positive impact. He surprised Merlin by changing tack. “It rains a lot more there than it does here.” He made a face, as if to indicate that bad weather was not pleasant. His audience laughed and complained about Italy's hot summers. “On the other hand,” Arthur went on, “there's a lot of greenery, forests and copses, verdant hills and small bowers.”

The children, used to the muddy streets of Rome, peeked from behind their parents' legs and made wide eyes at Arthur. Most of them hadn't ever seen anything over than the busy thoroughfares and squalid lanes of Rome. Some hung about the ruins, or climbed the hills when the weather allowed. But that was the extent of their knowledge of the countryside.

So Arthur continued talking about a subject that seemed to entertain his audience. He described the forests of England and the legends attached to them. So the companions who lived around the bridge engaged in the conversation, asking questions and commenting every now and then.

When Arthur got a little hoarse, they passed him a small jug of wine. God knew it wasn't the best, most probably of a lower quality than Arthur was accustomed to. But he didn't grimace or show his distaste. He sat on a barrel and drank from the jug, going on and on about his country and its unfamiliar customs.

When Merlin had first seen Arthur, he'd thought him arrogant, haughty. Merlin had been treated less than fairly by many a powerful individual in his twenty-two years, and he'd thought Arthur was of the same ilk. Handsomeness didn't equal goodness. But it seemed like Merlin had been wrong. As if there was more to Arthur than met the eye. The more he looked at Arthur entertaining the bridge folk, the more convinced he was of this. By and by Arthur noticed that Merlin was gazing at him. He smiled, and from then on every now and then they held gazes. Still, Arthur talked. When the subject of England was exhausted, Arthur was invited to play a card game and then a dice game. He lost and lost.

Merlin realised there was some cheating going on, and he was about to intervene. He hadn't brought Arthur here so he could be milked of his money. It didn't matter that he had more than enough to get by. But before Merlin could do or say anything, one of the old men Arthur had been playing with returned to him all the coins Arthur had lost.

“You have to learn better playing,” the old man said, as Arthur looked flummoxed at the little pile of coins gathered in his palm. “Come again and we'll teach you.”

The sun's descent flushed the horizon pink and cast a shimmering net across the Tiber, before the sky purpled with the blush of evening.

Having parted from the bridge folk, Arthur and Merlin walked the streets of Rome, mingling with the evening crowds, the workers who had just been released from their daily toil and the merry youths who had spent the afternoon revelling.

As the day drew to a close, Merlin knew the time had come to part with Arthur, and yet he didn't want to be the one to say the words. So he walked side by side with Arthur, brushing shoulders, their paths converging so they had to move apart if they didn't want to get tangled.

Shops closed; stalls were being dismantled. Everything hinted at the end of the day. Wanting to escort him as far as he could, Merlin moved them towards Arthur's richer neighbourhood. Arthur must have noticed, must have recognised familiar spots. Yet he didn't say anything, not until they sat on the edge of a fountain.

“It's been a pleasant day.”

Merlin acknowledged that with a little noise. He didn't want to be rude, but he didn't know how to hide the fact he was sorry to see the day end.

“I hope we'll be doing this again,” Arthur told him, searching out Merlin's eyes as he dangled his legs. “Soon, if that's all right by you.”

Merlin felt like he was drunk on air. A smile got away from him, and perhaps he was too easy to read, but at the moment he failed to care. “I'll still be modelling for Bernini.”

“Then I think I will develop more of an interest in the arts.” Arthur stood, turning around so as to be able to look at Merlin. And he did for a few protracted moments, his eyes aglow with amusement, lightheartedness. It was as if he was imparting a secret to Merlin, one meant for Merlin only. “See you soon.”

Merlin watched as the crowds enveloped Arthur, but he wasn't sad about it. Arthur had promised to see him again, and he was learning to trust his words.

****

Rome, 1633

As he surfaced from his memories, Arthur concentrated on the light emanating from a candle stub floating in its sconce. Slowly, the shapes around him became solid, bearing the likeness of his surroundings. The room with its colourful hangings, the simple furniture, and the young harlot who had invited him to her room.

Enmyria had placed her elbow on her leg, her hand on her cheek. She seemed to have been expecting Arthur's reaction, for when Arthur jumped up, putting money down on the bedside table to pay for the drinks and Enmyria's entertainment, she betrayed no surprise.

She only called out after him when he was nearly at the end of the hall, about to descend the steps into the tavern. “I'll be waiting to hear how this turns out.”

By the time Arthur exited the tavern, the streets were completely dark and there were fewer people around. Yet Arthur had lived in Rome, both in the past and currently, long enough to remember the way. Though the passersby were fewer at this hour than they were by day, Arthur managed in his haste to run into several people, muttering apologies and raising curses every now and then.

Still, he was determined. He must do this. Now that he'd had the idea he couldn't get it out of his head. So he almost ran ahead, his mind clogged by the fumes of the alcohol he had imbibed. He wasn't sure whether he'd do this if he were entirely sober, but right now he couldn't suppress the urge.

He had to stop every now and then to make sure of the road, it being one he hadn't frequented in a long time, but, once he made an effort, it all came back to him, and he could speed on.

The neighbourhood was just as it had once been. Squat cream buildings faced each other across a straight road that dissected the Rione Monti, right next to Santa Maria Maggiore. The building he sought was number twenty-four. Its facade was neater than it had been then, sporting a fresh coat of peach paint that highlighted the stone finishes. Otherwise the building hadn't changed. Arthur almost fancied he had travelled back in time, that he was still twenty and eager to find out about the world, to know great artists and solemn cities, to witness all that life could give – and to find love.

It took a few moments for Arthur to ground himself enough to knock on the door. After he had, lights appeared on the first floor. From behind the door the sound of grumbling came, coupled with the tread of footsteps and the squeak of the latch being lifted.

A woman opened. She was rotund and somewhat busty, with the pink cheeks of health. She was wearing a nightgown with a shawl to fend off the night chill, and a rather disgruntled expression that was only toned down by the fact she was still only half-awake, with her eyelids drooping into closing and her right cheek bearing the shape of her pillow. She grunted rather than asked what his business was.

Arthur asked, “Does Master Bernini still live here?”

She raised a heavy eyebrow, though she could muster only as little indignation as her sleepiness allowed. “He does. What do you want with him?”

Reminding himself that he'd roused her from her slumbers, Arthur made allowances for the woman's brusqueness. “I have business with him.” This wasn't entirely accurate, but it was the sort of excuse that would pass muster. “He knows me. My name's Arthur Pendragon.”

“Never heard of ya,” she said in her thick Roman tones. “I'll go see if he's still up, though. With the hours he keeps, he may be.”

As she moved from the doorway, Arthur could glance inside. The hallway was dark, lit only by a thin taper held halfway up the wall by a delicate sconce. The stairs were bathed in shadows so thick the moonlight coming from the first landing scarcely made any inroads. Just as the woman started climbing, treads creaked. Someone else was coming down. “What's all this hullabaloo, Maria?”

Maria answered in a gruff voice. “There's a man wanting to see you.”

“I'm not entertaining tonight.” Arthur thought detected the tones of Bernini’s rich voice. “If I were, I'd be gallivanting with Cardinal Borghese.”

Pre-empting Maria's explanations, Arthur decided to take the matter into his own hands. Taking a step forwards so he was inside the house, he said, “I hope you remember old friends.”

“I certainly remember you.” Bernini had answered without a pause, which meant he had deduced who his guest was immediately. “Arthur Pendragon. It's been a while.”

It had indeed. Being in the Via Liberiana was awakening long-buried memories. Hearing Bernini's voice was doing the same. He had been young and hopeful then, a little full of himself, more hedonistic than he was at present. He almost mourned the person he had been there and then, but there was no time for that. For one because he was, in all likelihood, annoying Bernini, and for another because he was hurting himself, so he cut to the chase. “I have something to ask you.” He balled his fists and took a big gulp of much needed air. “Something private.”

Bernini sighed and, addressing Maria, said, “You can go back to sleep. I'll see to Mr Pendragon myself.”

Muttering under her breath, Maria shuffled away, making for a door that must lead to some kind of ground floor room. Once she had disappeared, Bernini signalled for him to follow him.

Arthur closed the door to the flat and climbed the stairs in Bernini's wake. This was the same building Arthur had visited before, but this wasn't a part of the house Arthur had known in the past, for this was the private section of it. On Bernini's heels he came to the first floor where a small antechamber led into the owner's sitting room. A small fire burned brightly behind the iron grate, illuminating the edges of a Persian rug and throwing shadows up the art-laden walls.

Overall, the space was welcoming and cozy, warm and homely, full of items geared towards making life comfortable: the living quarters of someone who enjoyed life. As for the objects displayed, some of them cost a pretty penny, but one had the feeling that they hadn't been paraded on tables and walls to show off their owner's opulence – though Bernini clearly must be well-off – but to seduce the gaze of proprietor and guest alike.

By the light in the fireplace, Arthur could see that Bernini was dressed for bed in a long tunic and hose. Now that he let his gaze travel over him, Arthur saw that Bernini had aged a little. As befit a man in his mid-thirties, there were more lines around his eyes, and his moustache had expanded to become the full beard of a mature man. Even so, the years hadn't been unkind to him, for he hadn't become ruddy or robust as was the case for some, his shape not having altered much in the interval between Arthur's last sighting of him and the present moment.

As for Bernini's mood, he seemed fairly put out by Arthur's late night visit. His gaze was certainly somewhat belligerent, and his posture was not that of a man about to sit down for a convivial chat.

Arthur could guess why. In the next room over, Arthur could spy an unmade bed, a stack of pillows by the headboard.

“You were readying yourself for bed.” Arthur hung his head.

“Don't stand on ceremony now,” Bernini said, moving a book from a little round table to a narrow but ornate end table. “You barged in late at night. You must have a reason.”

“I realise it's been a while—”

Bernini cut him off. “Ten years, but who's counting.”

“I understand what this must seem like.” It was rude and ill-advised, a breach of common etiquette and a violation of privacy. But Arthur had never experienced such urgency before. It was as if he was on the cusp of a great event, which he could make real only if he tried hard enough. For the first time in a decade he thought he had a chance. Happiness looked like a state he could attain. “I look mad, completely so, and perhaps I am. But...” He searched for the right words with which to broach the subject, and then decided to go for something simple. “...do you know where Merlin is?”

Bernini threw his head back and laughed with gusto. “It's been ten years!” He seemed to be having a hard time controlling his laughter. “And you want to know where Merlin is?”

Arthur stiffened. “I asked a question. I'd like to receive an answer.”

Bernini shook his head. With a sigh, Bernini settled down on a wide wingback armchair, crossing his legs. “You were over and done with long ago.”

Arthur, for one, didn't need to be reminded. Every detail concerning that relationship was indelibly etched in his memory. In spite of the pain its recollection caused, he didn't want to forget either. “Bernini, I came here for a reason. I could try and get that information from others.” He was sure that there were individuals who'd do anything for hire. “But despite the tone of our last communication, I thought we were friends. Certainly your anger will have cooled.”

Bernini looked the other way, ran a hand through his still flowing mane of hair. “I thought we were too before you misread my character so completely in that angry letter of yours. The one I got before my polite reply?”

They were treading old ground and Arthur found it tough going. He'd come here out of a desire to find Merlin again. But now he realised that he oughtn't have rushed here the way he had. It was but natural that Bernini not be enthused by his visit. In his eagerness to act, Arthur had overlooked this. But aside from his intent here, he wanted to mend things with Bernini too. He had been so young then. He had been awakened to feelings that were overwhelming. Was it so hard to understand why he made the mistake he did? “I tried to apologise later. You didn't listen.”

“I have a hot temper,” Bernini said. His casual shrug belied the rapid succession of emotions that painted themselves on his face. “What will you have? But let's say my temper has indeed cooled and that now I see why you were so frantic then.”

Arthur's shoulders slumped. He was here because he wanted to make up for past errors. Back then his judgement had been clouded by love and passion. It was no excuse, but he had changed. Suffering had morphed his perspective, made him different. Though he couldn't be the judge of it, he hoped he was a better person. “I repeat that apology. I hope you'll be in the mood to accept it now.”

Bernini grunted.

“And I thought you counted Merlin among your friends too.” Arthur sucked in a breath. “Held him dear, even.”

Bernini pushed off the armchair to stride back and forth, his hair dancing around his shoulders as he did so. “Well, well, well, I can't say that I didn't imagine seeing you again from time to time. That I didn't indulge in a few flights of fancy involving your begging for my forgiveness. I stopped years ago, for the labours of art are much more important.”

“I am sorry if I caused you more tribulation than you should have suffered,” Arthur said, willing to admit partial blame in this. “I acted out of—”

“Love, passion, anger, jealousy?” Bernini cocked an eyebrow. He looked at ease with himself. “I think I had you sorted out by the time we last exchanged missives.”

“Bernini, I...” Arthur didn't want to admit to the many sins Bernini made him sound guilty of, but he'd gladly concede he'd been madly in love.

“Though I'll admit to toying with possibilities, indulging in a fascination fanned by the muses, I'm not the enemy here.” Bernini didn't stop his erratic pacing. He made the floorboards creak, and collected dust under the bare soles of his feet. “But that's neither here nor there. I'm even considering helping you out.”

Arthur gave him time. He felt a pressing need to meet Merlin again, but that didn't mean he didn't want his chance with Bernini too. Maybe they could mend things, and though heartfelt friendship wouldn't bud them between them again, at least not soon, he needn't burn bridges wholesale.

“I do accept your apology.” Bernini held himself proudly, as though he hadn't been caught in his nightshirt. He looked like a king in his court. “This time.”

They went to the table. Bernini placed two glasses rim up and filled them with wine. Behind them the fire crackled and popped, its sounds those of simple domesticity. It certainly lent warmth to the room and perhaps the soul. Bernini must have found it was so, for he sat down, liberally sprawling, and invited Arthur to do the same.

After he'd drunk and observed the transparency of the glass by the faint light of the room, Bernini spoke. He sounded tired and already a little tipsy. “As it happens, Merlin's in Rome again.”

Arthur's brain emptied of thoughts. He'd been feeling rather complicated feelings, but this piece of news drew him up short. Questions popped up in his mind and he had a hard time not voicing them. He had to take a breath and make sure he could make sense of what he'd just been told. He leant back and just let himself fall into a well of memories.

****

Rome, 1623

Arthur walked the streets of Rome with a smile on his face and an apple in his hand. The crowds moved with him and against him. Sometimes a stall vendor would wish him good day, and Arthur would reply in cheerful Italian, nodding his head in acknowledgement. He knew he was being enticed to buy some article or other off them, but today he didn't care about that. The sun was shining, albeit from behind a veil of clouds, the Romans seemed to be welcoming him in their midst as never before, and he was about to meet people who mattered to him.

He approached Bernini's place from the other side of the street compared to how he usually arrived. The downstairs door was open, revealing a cat playing in the hall on the ground floor. Arthur bounded upstairs, calling the artist's name while hoping to receive an answer that didn't exactly come from him.

He found Bernini in his top floor atelier, which daylight had flooded so that all his works appeared at their best.

But though Arthur could normally appreciate the beauty of Bernini's work, he wasn't in a mood to contemplate it today. Scarcely slowing down, he made for the centre of the atelier. Bernini was in front of his latest work-in-progress, marble dust sprinkling his apron as well as the rest of his clothing.

Merlin stood on his dais, naked as the day he was born, holding an athletic pose, the contours of his body standing out to best effect.

Rapture taking his heart for a spin and scattering his thoughts, Arthur watched. There was beauty to Merlin, of course. His body was one fine line. His features were captivating. But the grace that he gave off came from something that wasn't grounded in transient characteristics, but in the openness and thoughtfulness of Merlin's character. It was as if what was on the inside shone on the outside too. He imagined a poet would know how to define this, but Arthur had no words. Only his emotions bore the mark of his thoughts.

Though Arthur stood there speechless, Bernini greeted him. “Pendragon, you're back!”

Arthur had a hard time shifting his focus away from Merlin, but he managed a polite answer.

Even if he didn't stop working, moulding the marble with chisel and rasp, Bernini continued. “Merlin here suggested I should portray you too.”

Arthur wasn't sure what Bernini was talking about, for Merlin had broken the pose to smile at him. “What, me?” he asked belatedly as his brain slowly filtered Bernini's words.

“Yes.” Bernini blew some dust away from the corner of his artwork. “Of course you can't be my brave David, but I have enough commissions and I might have an idea or two.”

Arthur didn't know what to say. He hadn't prepared for this and his thoughts were elsewhere, trained on Merlin, just as his eyes were. “I—”

“You could sit for my Pluto.”

Merlin nodded and grinned at him. He seemed excited by this prospect.

Bernini went on even as he kept working. “You have the looks for it, the physicality.”

Arthur was trying to remember his classical myths. He’d had a tutor when he was young who had introduced him to Greek and Latin. Arthur had found him mirthless and boring. He had enjoyed the outdoors more than the dusty tomes that had been put before him. But though he'd retained little Greek, he had maintained a working knowledge of Latin and mythology. “Isn't he the god of the Underworld?”

Drawing and shaping coils of muscle with his hands and blunt-tipped tools, Bernini worked on, even as he spoke to Arthur. His attention was on his art, but he could spare some of it for small talk. “Indeed. My patron, Cardinal Borghese, like all cardinals, loves his profane subjects.” His hands made quick work of the marble, willing it to form itself into the wished-for details. “I'd be working on the Rape of Prosperina.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Which is also a subject that unfortunately tickles all these princes of the Church.”

According to what Arthur remembered from his student days, Ovid had described this bit of myth. In the Metamorphoses, the god of the Underworld kidnapped Persephone and dragged her into the Underworld. Her mother, Ceres, the goddess of grain, went to Jove for help, and Jove ordered Pluto to return Persephone. Arthur could not recollect much more than that. “So I'd the abductor?” he asked, even as his gaze moved away from Bernini, however intriguing his technique was, and onto Merlin. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“But you'll be in master Bernini's work,” Merlin said, smiling big and breaking pose, his David suddenly appearing less heroic and more approachable. “That's something to consider, Arthur.”

Arthur cocked his head. He wondered if Merlin had had a hand in Bernini's offer and, if he had, why he had asked Bernini to sculpt Arthur in the first place. While Arthur surely was an admirer of his, he had never considered sitting for him. Though he wasn't a peer or anywhere close to being in a position of power, Arthur was a man of some standing, and men of standing did not pose for artists unless it was for their own portrait. So he was rather taken aback at the offer. While he hadn't dared to be viewed as a patron of Bernini, who could count on the munificence of cardinals and the Pope, he had thought of himself as an admirer of his work and not some part of it. “While I find the idea tempting”—Arthur acknowledged Bernini with a nod—“I'm not sure I should sit for this.”

“You'd pose with me.” Merlin's smile burned like a lively flame, a joy-inducing source of heat and life. “I could be your Prosperina.” He looked to Bernini. “If, of course, Master Bernini can change my body into that of a beautiful maiden.”

“I've certainly done that before—” Bernini gazed up from his work in progress. “—for lack of models in my impecunious days.” He spared a moment to check Arthur and Merlin's reaction to his words, smiled to himself, then, having dusted both himself and the floor around the base of the sculpture, bent back to the task. “I suppose it'll be a challenge to my inventiveness.”

Arthur didn't like to show how easily he could be swayed, and yet the idea of posing with Merlin suddenly struck him as enticing. They'd spend more time together, and they'd have cause to. And given the subject they would do so in close proximity. That offered its fair share of temptations and rewards. Trying to appear as unbiased as possible, he said, “Considering Master Bernini's talent, I suppose I could relent.”

Bernini bowed his head, showing he was pleased with Arthur's acquiescence. Merlin, too, rewarded him with a smile, a less subtle sign of his happiness with the prospect.

For a while after this, both Merlin and Bernini concentrated on their respective tasks as model and sculptor, falling back into a cooperative silence that spoke of industriousness. Before long more traits and parts were etched in stone. Arthur wondered at the ease with which Bernini seemed to breathe life into inanimate matter. Arthur could really believe the statue would soon walk and talk, spark with the fire of a real soul. Arthur had always looked at classical myths as a series of quirky, sometimes didactic, sometimes prurient tales, but now he was almost ready to believe you could fall in love with cold marble or be born of clay. All his boring lessons had somehow acquired a verisimilitude they hadn't had before.

Bernini must have known it, for he was nodding, satisfied at the outcome of his work. It was clear he was by no means done, the statue far from being complete. But at this point Bernini could likely tell that the end result would please his ecclesiastical buyer.

“I'm almost done for the day,” Bernini said, his hands stained with marble dust and scratched from the chisel, the true sign of his job. “You can go, Merlin. Thank you for your time.”

Merlin jumped off the dais and wrapped himself in a dressing gown that must have belonged to Bernini, for it sat short on him. “If you need me any longer...”

Bernini's gaze encompassed Arthur as he said, “Go, have a glass of Tiber wine at the tavern. You thoroughly deserve it.”

Merlin didn't even have to pronounce the invitation. They would spend the next two hours together. Bernini had made it easy for them, and Arthur was silently grateful. He didn't know how to turn his and Merlin's acquaintance into something deeper, but he wanted to, and this looked like a good course of action.

The tavern was close to Bernini's workshop. It was still early in the day, but it was somehow still full of Rome's wastrels, young men belonging to no house and having no job, who whiled away the hours with average wine and jaunty Spanish guitar music.

Normally Arthur wouldn't frequent such a place. While by no means a Puritan, he didn't approve of daytime drinking, much less of the reputation such places had, and yet he had to admit it was convenient. No questions were asked here, and the serving girls were efficient enough when it came to serving their customers who had the wherewithal to pay. And Merlin seemed to have it, for, in spite of his general impoverished status, he brandished a handful of silver coins: good enough to pay for far more than two glasses of wine shop staples.

Arthur wondered if that was Merlin's compensation for modelling, and might even have asked if he hadn't thought it gauche to do so. Though curiosity pricked at him, he quashed all the questions that wanted out. How much Bernini was giving Merlin was none of his business.

The drinks arrived and Arthur nursed his, watching Merlin as he drank large gulps of the house wine. Thanks to the alcohol, his complexion pinked up and his smile grew wider.

Arthur grinned in return and drank a pull, which didn't make him feel quite as heady as Merlin did. “You look happy.”

“There's no reason not to be,” Merlin said, humming lightly as he thought about how to explain himself. “The sun is shining”—he made a face when he realised it wasn't actually—“life is beautiful, and it offers so many surprises.” He drank some more, a more moderate quantity this time. “You never know when a good thing will fall across your path.”

Arthur felt Merlin's keen gaze on him, had a feeling he was being included in that description, and something in him went ablaze. He drank to Merlin's health, and Merlin's eyes went small with something Arthur dared to call joy.

They didn't need words, did they? Though Arthur usually liked to tread safely in matters of the heart, to only dare when he knew his feelings were surely returned, in this instance he intuited they didn't need to spell it out, to put it in so many words that would only cheapen what burned between them.

Accordingly, they drank in silence some more, holding each other's gazes as if they were the last inhabitants of a depleted earth. Then, when the winery filled with more and more people, they left, wandering the main thoroughfares of Rome, where they were surprised by a sudden squall that made them laugh as it drenched them.

Instead of parting, they found refuge in a small alley lined by buildings whose eaves offered some scant cover. They could have realised that their clothes were sodden, that their hair was plastered to their skulls like dead pelt. But they ignored that sort of inconvenience. They grabbed each other by the forearms, looking into each other's eyes even as water flowed in rivulets down their necks and chins. As if they were reading each other for signs that this was right, they got serious for a few moments. Arthur was so sure then that he leant forward and kissed Merlin with a press of lips that knew no shyness.

Their mouths met again and again like flints seeking a spark, lighting one that felt as though it would never die. Their tongues met and sweetened the kiss, their collision passionate and honeyed at the same time.

Emotion engulfed Arthur in a way that fed the kiss. And his feelings seemed to be mirrored by Merlin's, for he touched and probed with his mouth and hands until he had grown as breathless as Arthur had, until he had pulled Arthur's shirt almost halfway off him.

Shivering against his will, Arthur didn't slow the outpouring of his passion, but Merlin pulled back.

Panting, he leant his forehead against Arthur's, looking down but smiling all the same. “I say we should take this somewhere else, if you agree.”

Arthur had never agreed more on anything.

****

Rome, 1633

The palazzo was four stories tall and noble in aspect, with a wide balcony wrapping around the sides and an entry door capped by fine marble stonework, bearing the effigy of a rampant lion, which was the crest of some noble family. The building itself was ancient, but well kept. It seemed to lean over the pavement a little, as if the architect that had conceived it had made a mistake that had rendered the edifice unstable, yet the paint was spotless, the structure gleaming golden as a freshly baked biscuit in the morning sun.

Arthur rapped the knocker against the doorframe, then waited on the step until a liveried young man opened the door. He was young and brunet, with a certain otherworldliness about him. For a moment he reminded Arthur of Merlin, to the point Arthur could almost have thought it was him, but the finer details of his features were different; besides, the youth could not be possibly be above nineteen.

Swallowing back his disappointment at this not being Merlin, Arthur made his query.

“And you want to speak with Cardinal Buontorno on what grounds, exactly?” The doorman surely knew how to turn up his nose at unexpected guests. His eyebrows were arched up so far they appeared to be defying the limitations of anatomy, and his lips turned down in a show of cold disdain.

Arthur had prepared his opening, but he was not sure it would pass muster. “I'm secretary to Lord Astolat, and I wish to speak to the cardinal about a personal matter.”

The doorman lifted his chin, as if he didn't find Arthur's excuse good enough. Lord Astolat's fine pedigree wouldn't surely have been questioned, but Arthur's right to bandy his master's name about was.

Arthur didn't blame the doorman's scepticism. If the man had announced himself at Lord Astolat's with the same flimsy pretext, Arthur would have turned him away. But to be honest, Arthur had had no time, or willingness, to concoct a better plan. He might have asked Lord Astolat for an introduction, but he was positive Lord Astolat boasted no papists among his real acquaintance, though the Queen was actually Catholic. Being a man of noble birth and connections, he could likely have found a way for Arthur to gain entry at the Buontorno Palace, but that would have required time. After yesterday's revelation, Arthur felt he had none to spare.

If Merlin was here – in Rome, now – then Arthur needed to meet him. Once he had, he didn't know what he'd do, but he was certain that seeing the statue at Cardinal Borghese's was no coincidence, but rather a nudge on the part of destiny. Yes, he was here for a reason.

His mien sceptical, the doorman excused himself, saying he would seek his master’s answer. Arthur waited on the doorstep, the resplendent empty hallway facing him, background street sounds accompanying his foot tapping.

At last, the doorman came back, his condescending expression unaltered. “You are lucky. The cardinal will grant you a brief audience out of respect for your master.”

So saying, he turned around, his small square heels clomping across the shiny wooden floor. Arthur followed him up a rather grand winding staircase whose rail was carved out of mahogany. He trailed him down a stretched-out corridor along which several paintings hung. Most of them were of religious subjects, their dark patterns showing Biblical personages in sombre scenarios.

Arthur far preferred the dynamic lines of Bernini's works, the life he infused them with. His self-portrait reflected the inner workings of his character: in the same way, his sketches breathed out a humanity that dwarfed other artists' skills.

Arthur was still lost in thought when the doorman stopped before a carved door. “He'll receive you now,” he said, opening it without knocking.

The room was square and brightly illuminated, with ample shelving almost bending under the weight of books and art objects, and a thick mahogany door right opposite the one Arthur had entered through.

The cardinal himself was dressed in his reds, wearing a pair of rivet spectacles entirely too small for his beaky nose. He shut the book he had made a pretence of reading with a loud snap. Then he said, in gentle tones contradictory to this action, “I gather you were looking for me.”

The footman excused himself, and Arthur shut the door behind him. “Yes, Your Eminence.”

“Does your employer wish to get in touch with me?” Cardinal Buontorno's curiosity as to Arthur's presence in his house manifested itself in the upward curve of his bushy greying eyebrows. “I'm not a free agent, as you may well imagine. I'm a cardinal and must look to the Holy See for guidance as to diplomatic overtures.”

Arthur saw that this would be hard to explain. He most certainly didn't want to get Lord Astolat involved. His employer wouldn't probably approve of Arthur using his name thus, and though Arthur hoped he'd be forgiven his misstep, there was a chance he would be sacked from his post. In the worst-case scenario, diplomatic relations between England and Rome could be fouled by a web of suspicion and rumours, innuendo and prevarication. Arthur preferred not to think about all these implications. Besides, this was personal, highly so. “I'm not here on my lord's behalf.” He had at least got that out. The cardinal looked more confused than before, but Arthur hoped he could explain himself without creating a diplomatic scandal. “I'm here for a different reason.” Arthur licked his lips. He now had to make himself clear while excising a big part of the narrative. “I have it on good authority that you know of a man called Merlin. That you...”

“Employ him?” Cardinal Buontorno started frowning. “I do indeed. But I can see no reason for your interest.”

“I know him.” Arthur made himself look squarely at Buontorno. “I knew him in the past, and I wish to renew the acquaintance.”

Buontorno's frown deepened, becoming rather menacing. His gaze sharpened like a fine Spanish blade, as he appraised Arthur with a wry expression. “And on that score you seek an audience with me, a busy servant of the church, while using your own master's illustrious name in order to get your wish?”

Trying to salvage the situation, Arthur bowed. “When Master Bernini told me my old friend was in Rome and working in your service, I acted rashly. But—”

Buontorno cut his apology short. He was likely assessing the situation and all its pros and cons, trying to suss out all the secrets Arthur had or might eventually reveal. He certainly didn't care for Arthur's excuses, no matter what sort of fine language they were couched in. His eyes were gleaming with some kind of passion, though. What that was directed towards remained unclear, but Arthur seemed to have kindled his interest. “Master Bernini, you said. You claim his acquaintance?”

Arthur didn't see what this had to do with Merlin, but he was in enough trouble as it was, so he went with the flow. At least Buontorno wasn't throwing him out. “Indeed I do, though that goes back to the time I first was in Rome, some ten years past.”

“This is quite interesting.” Buontorno put the book he'd kept a hold of down on the window seat and scratched pensively at his chin. “I admire Master Bernini's work. Many of my fellow churchmen are patrons of his. I've always thought them rather lucky to command such an artist's attention.”

Arthur knew he'd be damned for this. It bypassed all rules of politeness, but if meeting Merlin was at stake, Arthur would do anything. “Master Bernini is very selective when it comes to his patrons, but I'm sure I could put in a good word on your behalf.”

At these words, Buontorno's attitude changed. He cocked his head. All traces of irritation disappeared from his face like a slate being swiped clean. Instead he rubbed his hands and favoured Arthur with an ingratiating smile. “Now that's interesting. As an admirer of Bernini's work, I would certainly reward him appropriately – as I would you for enabling this connection.”

Arthur didn't wish to steer the conversation away from Merlin, but he needed to humour Buontorno so he'd get his wish. Arthur knew he was risking his reputation, his very friendship with Bernini, if there was any repairing it, but he had gone too far to turn back now. So he answered promptly, “Consider it done.”

Buontorno weighed Arthur and his words. He must have believed him genuine, for next he moved to his desk and rang a little golden bell.

Footsteps resounded from an area of the house lying past the rear door of the cardinal's office.

As they got closer, Arthur's heart took up their rhythm, and that rhythm gave way to a racing gallop, prompted by the thought Merlin could be near.

And then the handle lowered itself and the door creaked.

****

Rome, 1623

Merlin arched under his kisses, his skin brightened by the sunlight that flooded in from the window of Arthur's Roman flat. He was so stunning in person, even more beautiful than in Bernini's renditions of his body. His flesh was warm and it reddened under the touch of Arthur's lips; it yielded as Arthur laved his muscles one by one from collarbone to ankle.

As Arthur kissed his skin, Merlin moaned. It was a subdued sound, a little echo of what Merlin must be feeling, but it fired Arthur all the more. He wanted everything. He wanted to taste Merlin's taste. He wanted to palm and map every inch of skin he'd bared for Arthur. He wanted to lose himself in him and with him for all time.

Arthur nosed at Merlin's sternum, provoking a chuckle that changed into a sob as Arthur's hand spanned downwards toward his flank and thigh.

In retaliation, Merlin pulled Arthur to him for a kiss, and Arthur gave him one that was open and hungry, the fleshy rim of their lips getting tangled in hot breath and the pressure of each other's mouths. As they traded tongues, Arthur let his hands once again take stock of Merlin, running his palm down his torso so that it skimmed his belly. He made a grab for the base of him, feeling his girth and warmth.

Merlin threw his head back and closed his eyes. If Arthur had Bernini's skill, he'd immortalise this. Perhaps it'd be a little lewd for a general audience, but that would ensure that this moment was never forgotten. As it was, Arthur would have to make do with his memories. These would be enough to fill any man's heart. He hoped he could do the same for Merlin.

So Arthur wrapped his lips around the tip of Merlin's cock, tilting his head so he could espy his expression. While Bernini had Merlin's anatomy down pat, he had never sculpted the look of rapture that descended over Merlin’s features; he'd never been able to make art of _this_ moment. Of this Arthur was strangely glad.

Given Arthur's momentary lapse into thoughtfulness, Merlin made a sound, drawn out and a little pained. Arthur took him into his mouth. Merlin's breathing took on a different quality, hushed but hurried. Arthur drew back, then swirled his tongue around him again, singling out random spots for attention. Merlin's eyes glazed over with pleasure; his skin took on a glow marble could never imitate. Briefly, he wrapped his hands around Arthur's head in an attempt to guide Arthur's actions, but Arthur shrugged him off.

He wanted to please him, but he also wanted Merlin not to fight this, not to hurry this into insignificance. So Arthur let his tongue wind around him, drew him in with renewed vigour, making it as hot and wet as he knew how.

Merlin's little stuttered protestation didn't amount to real words and was scarcely comprehensible. He looked like a lapsed angel, and yet not debauched at all. This wasn't like any of the pictures of Italy his compatriots had painted for Arthur. This was utterly different. There was no lewdness in it. This was sweet and touching. It wasn't the result of some trifling affair tied to time and place, a locale hunted down for pleasure and quickly forgotten. It was something else, and Arthur was growing more and more cognisant of it.

But now was the time for action, the time to bring this to its natural conclusion. He made one last forward push, taking Merlin deep in his throat, then retraced his steps and bobbed his head, not rapidly but with slow determination, tasting every single inch, the texture and slide of salty slick skin.

At that Merlin thrust and Arthur almost wanted to laugh. Arthur experienced a joy that made him feel rambunctious and energetic, elated and full of hope. Flying on the wings of this, he gave Merlin all that he had and sucked hard on the head, causing Merlin to come just as Arthur was pulling back, anointing sheets and skin.

Shaking with laughter, Arthur lay down next to him so they were sharing one single pillow, so that he was resting on Merlin's outstretched arm. He buried his head in Merlin's neck, and that revived Merlin a little, causing him to kiss Arthur's forehead and take his cock in his hand.

Arthur had been waiting, and though he’d been focused on what he'd been doing, his body could only strain and yearn so far. With a few determined pulls, Arthur came with an orgasm that briefly stunned his senses. By the time he'd ridden that out, Merlin was saying things to him.

Arthur smiled in his face, not fully processing what he was being told. “What?”

“We should head off to Bernini's,” Merlin told him anew, repeating the message. “Or we shall be late.”

Arthur's brain was still clouded by the aftermath of pleasure. Slowly, he managed to focus on what Merlin was telling him. In truth, as much as he loved Bernini's work, he almost couldn't find the will to get up and get dressed, but Merlin set the good example.

Before long they were in Bernini's studio, relieved of the clothing they had donned to cross town. Sometimes Arthur posed in the role of Pluto, sometimes that of Prosperina. Though neither his physique nor his physiognomy lent itself to portraying Prosperina, Bernini's imaginative work made up for it. By now Bernini had models queuing out the door for the honour of being immortalised by him. But for some reason he stuck with them, Merlin and Arthur.

Bernini was working the marble into shape, his hands cut and covered in small bandages. “You two,” he said, “have something about you, a tension of purpose that strikes chords into this world of ours. That's what I want to portray.”

Arthur didn't know about that, but he'd take any opportunity to be this close to Merlin.

****

Rome, 1633

The door closed behind him and he stepped into the golden light of the room.

Arthur's heart took a pause in its beating and then reprised its rhythm with a curious fierceness. Ignoring it in favour of gazing at the new arrival, he completely dismissed Cardinal Buontorno from his thoughts. How could he not, when the person he had been thinking about for the past ten years was there in front of him? When the man he had thought entirely lost to him was facing him and looking well and hale.

In the ten intervening years Merlin hadn't changed very much facially, though he had more assuredly come into his features in a way that hadn't been true before. His chin looked perhaps less pointed, for he was not as lean as he had been. There was less sharpness to him and more shrewdness, as if he had finally grown into himself both physically and intellectually.

That wasn't the only change about him. Arthur had known Merlin as a street vendor, really little more than an urchin. Now he looked like a member of the middle class. His doublet, though not fine as those favoured by the aristocracy, was a good, durable garment. The collar of his shirt was wide, and while it wasn't a proper ruffle, it hinted at one. His shoes were a recent purchase and shone with the patina of new leather.

In short, it looked as though Merlin had got on in life.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, having lost the ability to say anything else. He stood there, feet planted apart, heart in his throat, eyes trained on the figure of this person he never thought he'd ever see again.

Though Merlin's expression hadn't betrayed any feeling, his voice did. It trembled when he said Arthur's name, and though it steadied as he continued, it wasn't as strong as it might have been. “I thought you were far away, in England?”

Buontorno was watching them with keen eyes, ready to read the situation and turn it to his advantage.

But Arthur couldn't care less. Focusing on Buontorno was far from his thoughts.

“As you can see...” Arthur wasn't being very forthcoming, he could admit that. He'd come here seeking Merlin, full of purpose, and now he had dried up like a well in a drought.

Merlin watched him squarely, his inquisitive blue eyes on Arthur’s own, a play of emotions alternating in them, their succession swift and confusing, so that Arthur couldn't tell what he was thinking. He'd have loved to be able to. It would certainly have made things easier. The fear of saying something foolish wouldn't be dogging his step. But he had to fight it out and withstand it, for this was his chance, a chance to reverse a course that had brought him no happiness.

So he cleared his throat, turned a little, and asked Cardinal Buontorno, “May I have a few minutes with Merlin?”

Buontorno's frown let up when Arthur added his apologies for impinging on the prelate's time.

“I'll let my secretary decide.”

Merlin looked down, and Arthur felt sure he would decline. It felt as though his heart was being trampled upon, but that made him more resolute. If he still experienced the full impact of this so many years after the fact, then he'd never been mistaken regarding the importance of Merlin in his life. In the years following their parting, Arthur had often told himself that he had put too much value on a youthful experience. It was only natural; passion would do that when one was young. If that were true, he should have got over it in time. But he hadn't. He had only deceived himself, and he'd been right the first time around. His feelings had meant the world to him then because they were true.

Arthur didn't know whether his current thought process was showing or not, but Merlin's mien changed. Something about his whole look softened considerably, and Arthur almost fancied he'd travelled back in time to happier days.

Merlin said, “If you wouldn't mind, Your Eminence.”

Cardinal Buontorno stayed true to his word. He allowed Merlin to take a break.

Having obtained permission, Merlin guided him down the passageway he must have come from and into a private waiting room that was scantily furnished barring the works of art piled in it in the shape of busts, pictures, and vases.

Merlin turned round and said, “So, what brings you here?”

If Arthur had simply gone by the tenor of Merlin's words, he'd have been disappointed. But Merlin's cool facade was cracking, and his voice was by no means cold. Arthur's presence hadn't left him unmoved.

“I followed my employer, Lord Astolat, on his mission here in Rome,” Arthur said, wetting lips that seemed to have gone suddenly dry. “I've been here only a few months.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow.

That was reaction enough for Arthur. “Cardinal Borghese has Bernini's statue.”

“His David.” Merlin nodded. “He's had it for years.”

“Well, I wasn't there to see it, was I? I never beheld the finished product.” Arthur uttered those words with a grimace. “As soon as I saw it, I rushed to Bernini's and...”

“And he told you where to find me.” Merlin leant against a bare section of wall, with his hands behind him.

“Are you angry with me?” Arthur should have refrained from asking. He wasn't close to Merlin anymore. He had no right to probe. And yet he wanted to know the answer. Though this new meeting between them was sure to raise emotions that had lain dormant, Arthur hoped they wouldn't be hurt by this encounter.

“Why should I be?” There was sarcasm in Merlin's tone, and Arthur felt the hurt of it fully, the true punch of it. He gasped and Merlin noticed, adding, “Are you asking if I'm angry that you left?”

Arthur supposed he had been.

“I was pained by it. I felt gutted. Some small part of me understood it. But I felt deceived.”

Arthur lowered his head. In the long time they'd spent apart, Arthur had had ample opportunity to think of the past and how Merlin could have felt. He'd drawn a list of reasons that would perfectly explain what had happened. He had readied a little speech, but all those words, all those sensible justifications, scattered like leaves. He had nothing but a great mass of feelings that were hard to disentangle.

He would have turned around and walked away if Merlin's countenance hadn’t changed, if something in him hadn’t given way, showing a more friendly turn. So Arthur brokenly said, “You were gone too.”

“Yes.” Moistness was now gathering in Merlin's eyes. He no longer seemed to be able to control his emotional response. “It had been two years by then.”

It made sense. Perfect sense. The way it had ended couldn't possibly have been different. With the reality they had had to deal with, nothing could have changed. But still regret filled him to the brim. It pushed him into a sorrowful mood. Having Merlin there compounded the offence. Seeing him made what he had lost more real and more painful. With the distance that time and place conferred, he had almost persuaded himself it hadn't hurt as much as he thought it had. He'd attributed the pain he remembered to the acute perception of youth. It had, he'd told himself, amplified everything. “We had good times too.” The incontrovertible truth of it was hard to deny now. “Remember?”

****

Road to Naples, 1623

The cart trundled on the open gravel road, swaying from side to side as it advanced. They had long ago left behind the paved linear surface that had once been the Roman road, and started on this other, smaller byway because Bernini swore by it. They were all three sitting on the box seat, though Bernini had the reins, the horses obeying not so much his cues as their own will to move onwards.

As the cart swung, their bodies moved with it. Arthur would have probably protested the choice of vehicle, which was the one Bernini used for his deliveries, if not for the fact that Merlin seemed to be enjoying the outing like nothing else. He was beaming, his eyes wide open so he was drinking in the view.

He wasn't wrong; the vista was pleasant enough. It was sun-drenched even though it wasn't summer, and the temperature was mild. Bushes gave way to stately pines whose foliage shaded the road, which climbed and climbed into a narrower track. The entire scene had the charm of a painting.

It worked on Arthur too. Used as he was to the more sombre climate of his native England, he couldn't help but delight in the mild weather and in the vibrancy of colour that surrounded him. The green hues weren't as bright as in his native land, but they were more eye-catching. The sky was of a clear blue that pierced the eye, which was not typical of England either, and the gulls squawking in the distance promised a view of the sea, which he was not particularly used to since his family seat was nestled deep in the countryside.

Merlin said, “You can't get this much greenery in Rome.”

“Not unless you lose yourself in the campagna or you wander among overgrown ancient ruins,” said Bernini. “I must admit, I've missed this.”

While Merlin marvelled at their surroundings, Arthur asked, “You were born here?”

“Oh yes.” Bernini made sure to coax their horses up a crest. “My father is Tuscan born, but he moved south to work on the Certosa.” He let go of the reins with one of his hands and gestured far into the distance. “You won't miss the building once we're in Naples proper. Anyway he met my mother while he was working here. They married, he moved into her house, and that’s where I was born.”

“Sounds like he was entirely smitten,” Arthur said without thinking. “Moving to a new town, meeting a woman and shacking up with her.”

“Wouldn't you do it?” Merlin asked, still marvelling at their surroundings.

As they negotiated a stretch of bumpy ground, Bernini slowed their cart. He didn't seem too concerned with his driving, but rather distracted by the memories awakened by their conversation. “That he was. He still is.” Bernini laughed. “I'm the sixth of thirteen children. If that doesn't speak to their ardour, I don't know what does.”

“I'm sure your mother must be comely,” Arthur said, grinning widely.

“And your father too,” Merlin added, picking up on their ribbing of Bernini.

Bernini squared his shoulders, though he couldn't quite keep the laughter from his tone. “Where do you think I got my good looks?”

They laughed and shook their heads, teasing Bernini, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Honestly though, your house must have felt very crowded.” Arthur himself could not imagine it. He was an only child and an orphan, and without the company of mother and siblings his home had felt empty and bare, the more so given that his father hadn't often been in. “How did you ever cope?”

“I learnt to fight for access to the good things,” Bernini said, minding the road even as he spoke. “Believe me, that's the first rule you master in such a household.”

“I wouldn't know,” Merlin said, more pensive now and less jocular. “I was an only child, and my father left my mother before I was ever born. I had only my mother for company.”

Arthur hadn't known and would have commented, perhaps traded some confidences of his own, but he felt those revelations should be left for Merlin alone. He was the one Arthur wanted to share those truths with.

Besides, right then the road opened up, trees and bushes becoming sparser, and suddenly they were on a hillock overlooking the bay of Naples. In the distance, to the east, rose the notorious Mount Vesuvius, its cone partially encircled by a steep rim now whitened by a touch of snow.

From one side of the bay to the other the sea glittered like so many gems, small vessels cutting their course across it. From their vantage point you couldn't see what flag they'd hoisted, but you could certainly make out the varying types of craft and tonnage.

Bernini halted the carriage and Merlin climbed to his feet right there on the box. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he gazed at the vista. His voice shook with emotion when he said, “Beautiful.” He gulped and added, “I've never seen the sea before. Hell, I've never been outside Rome before.”

They drove into Naples and were surprised by how busy and colourful the roads were. Steering past the port area, they smelt the fish that was being unloaded, carted and traded around. They heard the yells of vendors, sailors, and urchins who populated the area.

This place was a hundred times noisier and more colourful than any Arthur had been to before. It was also considerably dirtier. Mud lined the streets. Pavements were scarce. A deep stench emanated from the wells they passed by, as well as from the rubbish collected in the darkest corners. With the stench came poverty too. Arthur stopped counting the beggars and the ragamuffins clothed in rags, because there were simply way too many.

A lot of them went about their business barefoot, at ease with their conditions. Others sat on doorsteps with a famished look to their hollow faces.

And yet for all that was miserable, there was much beauty about the place too. Once they left the narrow, grimy streets behind, they came upon the sea with its smell of salt and its wonderful blue lustre. The people they saw had open grins and a welcoming manner. Good cheer seemed to travel on the air.

The apartment Bernini owned was on the third floor of a small building whose facade was clean and bright. The habitation itself was mostly empty, though the back rooms had furniture. They made a beeline for these rooms. Having hoisted some of his own baggage on his shoulders, Bernini said, “I'll leave you in peace, so you can settle.” He grunted under the weight. “As for myself, I'll catch a nap, for the journey has wearied me.”

While Bernini took possession of the master bedroom he'd be occupying that night, Merlin and Arthur took the room next to his. Quickly they rid themselves of the burden of their travelling cases and opened the windows to look out at the street below.

It was market day today, and the street was lined with benches laden with various vegetables, ranging from huge cauliflowers to towers of carrots. Peas in their pods were sunk deep into crates, while bulbous shallots were still covered in the residue of the soil they'd been plucked from.

To the side of the market, a strip of sea cut their vista with a swathe of blue. Up here the breeze that entered from the windows smelt like the marine depths they could spy glimpses of.

“Do you like it here?” Arthur asked, turning Merlin towards the bed, which stood white and untouched, its headboard up against the wall.

“I’m in awe of the sights before me.” Merlin half peered outside and then half-looked at Arthur with the corner of his lips turned up. There was a light in his eyes that put a kind of happiness in Arthur.

Enervated by Merlin's statement, Arthur kissed Merlin softly on the lips, inhaling his breath as he did, before pushing him onto the bed and climbing on top of him.

Merlin's eyes were wide open and a laugh bubbled in his chest. “Bernini's in the other room.”

“I don't think he minds.” Arthur liked to think so, and anyway, he wouldn't have Bernini interfere.

Merlin's laugh bounced along the four corners of the room as Arthur's lips met his again.

****

Rome, 1633

“We did have good times.” They had left the room they had repaired to in favour of a walk in the small back gardens. Though they weren't by any means extensive, there was still a small fountain in them that gurgled and on whose rim birds tiptoed. “I don't deny that.”

They took a turn along the garden's walk, which was bordered by myrtle and sage beds. “And yet…?” Arthur brought himself to say. He was here to talk, clear the air, be honest. He could have been circumspect and spared his feelings, but that would have been self-deception. Besides, Merlin deserved better of him. “You admitting that; that's not enough.”

Merlin sent him a sideways look that might have meant many things. “Enough for what, Arthur?”

Arthur knew what he wanted, what he wished for in his heart. But he wasn't sure that would tally with Merlin's own wishes, and rejection would hurt him deeply. “For hope.”

Merlin sat on the bench they'd wandered close to, stretching his legs out and placing both hands on his thighs. Arthur arranged himself in a similar pose, leaving some space between himself and Merlin.

Merlin tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “Speaking the words now seems a little futile, but I loved you.”

The saddest thing was that Arthur had known it. They had never put it into words because their interactions had blossomed suddenly, with the rapid blooming of a spring flower. For his part Arthur had lived those moments to their very essence, happy to bask in the feelings he had sensed coming from Merlin. He'd always supposed Merlin had lived it the same way that he had. Having confirmation now was bittersweet; it came with the ache of lost things. Hearing it spoken aloud after all this time, though, was superbly painful. “I did too.”

“Then why did you leave me?” Merlin scrunched his face up, and though his features were pleasing at all times, right in this moment they were not. They were ugly with the force of the pain he must have felt then. “I don't—”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, attempting to place his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin shrugged him off. “I remember it as if it were yesterday.” His voice grated with a sorrow he barely seemed able to conceal.

****

1623, Naples

The sea crashed onto the beach and then hissed when it retreated; the waves curled darkly in a turbulent ocean. A fine gauze of sea spray borne by the wind wet their faces and their eyelashes. The vast blue expanse shimmered in an infinite beyond.

When they had stopped promenading themselves along the Mergellina littoral, which lay a stone's throw away from Bernini's house, and sat on the foreshore, Arthur passed Merlin the letter.

Forehead crinkled in thought, Merlin studied the envelope. When Arthur gave him leave, he spread out the letter so he could read it. His eyes squinted as he made out the characters. “It's in your language.”

Arthur tasted the tang of the sea on his tongue, let the breeze ruffle his overgrown hair. It had been weeks since they had left Rome, and he didn't regret letting it go a little, though now the wind was playing havoc with him. He should have considered this before setting out for this strip of coast, but he had felt the need to get Merlin alone so he could unburden himself. “Yes. The letter says... There's trouble with my father. He's severely unwell.”

Merlin looked into the distance and swallowed. “I'm so sorry to hear it. I hope...”

“I do too.” Arthur hoped his father would get better, that everything would settle for the best. “But it's concerning.”

Merlin didn't ask in what way, but Arthur needed to explain. So he went on. “See the signature...” He pointed at the bottom of the letter. “That's the housekeeper’s writing. She's saying that things aren't running smoothly at the old place at all.” The letter had opened with agreeable greetings and familiar turns of phrase from a woman Arthur had known since he was no more than a little sprout. “She doesn't specify, but she keeps repeating that things are not right. She's hinting that my uncle should have written to me himself because she asked him to, but to her knowledge he hasn't. She's inquiring about a possible reason for my uncle's actions or lack thereof.”

“If she can't tell,” Merlin said slowly, as if weighing the thought, “how are you supposed to know?”

Merlin had centred the problem, so Arthur said, “I can't know unless...” He didn't want to say the words. He wished he could owe nothing to anyone and stay here forever, away in Italy, enjoying this blessed life of art and culture and love. But if he let himself do that, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He wouldn't even make Merlin proud. “It's my own father, Merlin.” Arthur hoped these few simple words would convey all the meaning he couldn't hint at. “And I...”

“Of course.” Merlin's expression hardened for a moment as he watched the sea, then he inhaled and let his shoulders drop. A crooked smile appeared on his face, and though it was a little broken, it warmed Arthur deep down to his bones. “I don't exactly know what it means to have a family. I have no siblings and—”

“Having family is... not all it's cracked up to be.” With his mother gone, Arthur's father had not been the easiest person to deal with. “But I must. I...”

“You have to, of course,” Merlin said, giving back the letter. “When are you leaving?”

For some reason Arthur had wanted Merlin to fight for him, to ask him to stay. It made no sense, naturally. He had to see to this, make sure his father was fine, that all problems were solved. His father might have been unkind to him at times, but that didn't mean Arthur had no sort of filial duty to him. Seeing as he had to go, why did he want Merlin to be unreasonable and object? Why did he want him to stake a claim to rival his family's? Arthur tried not to think about it, about how light he would have felt if Merlin had only spoken the words, tried to stop him from doing what he had to. Maybe for all that they had, this was not enough for Merlin to want to hold on to him. And that was probably for the best, after all. It would help Arthur go. “I haven't made arrangements yet.” He crumpled the letter as he pocketed it. “This letter followed me from Rome, and...” Why did he sound like he was blabbering? “I expect I'll go quite soon, though.”

Merlin took his hand.

That gesture more than anything made Arthur see that all was not lost here. All of Merlin's better feelings were on display. Comfort and sympathy, understanding and support. And if they had to part now, that didn't make what lay between them any less real. Going forward he could still fight for them. It didn't have to look bleak for them. “I will come back. That I promise.” When Merlin leant towards him he took his mouth for a kiss he wanted to infuse with hope. “The journey will take a few months, all considered, but if you...”

Merlin palmed his cheek and said, “I'll wait.”

Though the near future looked desolate and he felt suddenly rudderless, Arthur allowed hope to spring in his soul.

****

“You didn't come back,” Merlin said, failing to look at Arthur. “I went back to Rome and modelled for Bernini. I waited and waited, but you didn't come back.”

If Arthur's sufferings could be any hint as to what Merlin had had to go through, then Arthur understood why he might feel bitter and resentful. It wasn't so hard to fathom, not if he was honest with himself. Yet there was a part of him that cried out for self-justification. He wanted absolution like he wanted air. “It was complicated,” he started.

Merlin cut him off with an upheld palm. “Look, I can imagine it very well. I don't need your artful excuses, your rehearsed speech.”

Perhaps it wasn't the kind thing to do considering the circumstances, perhaps there was something self-righteous about it, but he also believed that Merlin might see what was in his heart if he actually managed to voice his reasons. If time and circumstance didn't interfere, not again, they might one day have a chance.

“My uncle Agravaine was stealing money from my father.” When Merlin's face became stormy at the mention of material goods, Arthur hurried with his explanations. “It was not only that. He had made him sign a paper, giving him power of attorney. Using his illness, he made sure my father was isolated, alone, with no one to turn to.” Arthur remembered coming back home to the squalor and degradation Agravaine had made of the estate, and anger once again simmered inside him, as if all that was happening again, today, right in front of his eyes. He tried to suppress all the memories that wanted to come back to the surface, and made himself focus on what mattered now. “He was being treated awfully, with no pity, no trace of familial affection at all.” Arthur blinked back a tear. “By the time I came back, Uncle Agravaine had squandered a great part of our patrimony and my father was so poorly...” It was Arthur's turn to look away, for his vision to swim from the tears that gathered at the corner of his eyes

Merlin's voice echoed in his ears. “I don't know what to say. I had no inkling of your plight. I... And now I know of no words that would even in part console you.”

Arthur inhaled sharply, made his body rigid and forced himself to go on. He had never quite talked about it openly to anyone, the pain of that time coming to the fore every time he made himself delve into his memories. Sometimes memories were minefields, and better left forgotten if one wanted to live a constructive life. And yet Merlin was part of this, had been from the day they'd met, and if there was anyone who deserved Arthur’s candour it was him. “I managed to bring Agravaine to court, spending the little that was left of the family's bullion in order to make my uncle pay, get his just deserts. But my father was past caring about that, I believe. He wasted away and a while later he was dead, a victim of my mother's brother.”

“That's why you never came back, then.” Merlin's face swam before Arthur's vision, a picture of pain and empathy. “I thought you'd forgotten me. That while I was waiting...”

“I was leading a merry life in England?” Arthur snorted, comparing Merlin's would-be imaginings to the realities he'd had to go through.

“That was uncharitable of me,” Merlin said, drifting closer on the bench. “But I loved you and I held you to your promise. And I thought...”

“That I'd failed you?” It wasn't so untrue, after all, so Arthur might as well say it.

Merlin's features cracked with pain. “It seems I made a mistake.”Like Arthur, he let himself breathe deeply, and then he appeared to find his composure again.

Arthur reacted to the regret in Merlin's voice. He shouldn't have let himself hope, let himself imagine, even for the sliver of a second, that he could make up for what had happened, for their past history, which was unalterable now. And yet if he'd sought out Merlin, there must have been a reason, some tendril of the same optimism that was now getting him to talk. “I wrote,” Arthur said, wondering if his justifications were empty and meaningless. “I regret to this day not doing it immediately. But matters at home seemed so pressing. My father was dying, barely recognising me for his own son. We had nothing left. I focused solely on evicting my unle and transferring power of attorney back to myself. Meanwhile our name had been besmirched to the point our word meant nothing.” Those times had passed in a mist, days following each other without his noticing. “I tried to set matters straight, confident that you'd wait for me. I thought daydreaming of love was selfish and I must help my father first. As time passed, I realised how anxious you would be. I wrote to Bernini. My first letter must have been waylaid, for there was no answer. I received a reply to my second one. He said you weren't in Rome anymore. But that didn't matter, for by that time I was so impoverished that I couldn't have travelled to you anyway.”

****

Rome, 1626

Bernini's atelier was dustier than Merlin was used to seeing it. Plates full of untouched food lay on the table Bernini otherwise used for his tools. Rags rested crumpled on the same surface as quick, unfinished sketches Merlin wanted to look at.

But he had no time to, for Bernini greeted him without even turning, somehow knowing it was Merlin, even though Merlin hadn't visited his studio in a while, nor had he made any noise to advertise his presence.

The model Bernini had engaged lifted an eyebrow upon seeing him, pushed off the high wooden chair with a rounded back she had been sitting on, and tore off the veil that had covered part of her hair. She put on a heavier robe, then stalked to the table and pounced on the food, stuffing her mouth first with an apple and then with bread sponged in onion compote. “I'm taking my break now,” she said, as she happily chewed away.

Surveying the bust he was working on, Merlin walked over to Bernini. It was that of a lady, wearing the pleats of a heavy veil that hid her hairline. Her nose was mostly straight, but pointed downwards at the tip, towards a small mouth that held a severe expression. The visage was somewhat jowly, the cheeks sagging a little, a good indicator of the subject's age. “This does not look like the model.”

The lady in question said, “I should hope not.”

A faint smile turned up Bernini's lips. “That's because she's not the person I'm portraying.”

“And who would that be?” Though Merlin had his own problems to deal with, talking about Bernini's art always did him good. It took him away from the heartache and difficulties of his daily life. It was a connection that he valued in itself, and for the person it reminded him of.

“Camilla Barbadoni,” Bernini answered. “And if you don't know who that is, I'll tell you. She was Cardinal Barberini's mother, who in her turn was the sainted mother of our illustrious Pope Urban, who is, as you know, an esteemed patron of my humble art.” Bernini's hands moved in a flowery show of reverence.

Merlin laughed at the sarcasm his friend's tone exuded. “So that's why she's sitting for you.” Merlin threw a backwards glance at the famished model who was now sitting in the window alcove, biting into the skin of a fresh pear with relish.

“Since I never knew His Holiness' revered mother,” Bernini said, “I have to go off of something. Besides, Martha's beauty can inspire saints into acts of sinfulness and re-awaken the dead. She certainly gets my inventiveness going places I'd not contemplated before. ”

Merlin shook his head, a small smile painted on his face. “Artists...”

Minding her own business, the model left the room and Bernini stepped away from his bust. He put his dusty hands on his hips, leaving large imprints on the fabric of his trousers. His breeches hadn't been pristine anyway, but this was now much worse. He arched an eyebrow, as if daring Merlin to say something.

Merlin cast his gaze around. “You have worked on quite a few projects lately.”

Bernini said, “Merlin.”

Merlin stuffed his hands in his pockets and lowered his head.

“You still feel his absence.” Bernini pointed at him as if to accuse him of something. There was anger and regret in his gaze, more feeling than there had been in his accusatory words, but the resentment didn't seemed directed at Merlin. “It's been two years.”

Merlin knew. He hadn't even counted. He'd just felt the accumulation of days, the lonely ache of each one of them. And while hope had carried him on in the beginning, he couldn't find any to cling to these days. Once he'd found an atlas among the books that Bernini sometimes lent him. He'd opened it and looked for England. He'd known it was far away before, but the sight of the distance splayed out between himself and Arthur had sickened him, although not as much as the suspicion that more than distance was parting them.

“If he wanted to return,” Bernini said, “he would have. It's been so long he might as well have sailed to the West Indies and back a couple of times.”

It wasn't as if Merlin hadn't been aware. He was a simple man, but he had common sense. “Bernini...”

“No, you can't live your life moping around.” Bernini's eyes flashed. “Eternally waiting for something that...” He heaved a weary sigh. “...frankly won't happen.”

As much as he tried to avoid it, Merlin's eyes grew moist. Anger at his own reaction surged, but he tamped it down. What good was it? Besides, even though he resented having been dragged into this conversation, Bernini should not be the person he was angry with. “Why are we talking about this?” Not meeting Bernini's eyes, he let out a breath, his vexation gusting out with it. “It's not going to change how I feel.”

“Perhaps not.” Bernini's acknowledgement felt forced; there was an underlying resentment to his words, and yet also a concession to Merlin's feelings. “But you can't stop living.”

“I'm not.”

“You're not modelling for me as much, you won't find another lover, you don't even enjoy the pleasant pastimes this city has to offer.” Bernini counted these items off on his fingers.

“I don't think of myself as a model.” Though Merlin was proud of having been Bernini's David, if only in spirit, that was not what he was meant to do. “And I'm not ready for everything else.” He doubted he ever would be, and even hoping he would meet someone who touched his heart again seemed like a betrayal. “I can't be one forever and I can't go back to what I was. So what has Rome to offer me?”

Shaking his head, Bernini pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I have a solution for that.” When Merlin appeared dubious, Bernini spoke on. “I have a job for you.”

“A job?” Merlin cocked his head. “I told you, I'm not cut out to be an artist's—”

“I'm not talking about this!” Bernini gestured at his inchoate statuary, at the works-in-progress that crowded his workshop. “I'm talking about finding a way out for yourself.”

“I'm not that poor.” Merlin lived a perfectly ordinary life. He didn't have much, but he kept himself busy and always had enough to eat and a roof over his head. There were people, like his friends from under the bridge, who had even less and yet counted themselves content. “I can provide for myself. As for the rest... I don't need anything more.”

“I'm not discussing your ability to survive from day to day,” Bernini said. “But a change of horizons would be good for you.”

“I don't need any of that.” Merlin loved Rome perfectly well. He had been born in it, he had managed to get his footing in it, and he had found love in it. He realised that Arthur wouldn't come back; he had come to terms with the fact he wouldn't see him again, and yet he didn't want to forsake the place that had seen that affection took root. “I'm fine with this horizon.”

Bernini's eyes narrowed. “Cardinal Buontorno is looking for a footman. He's moving to Spain because he's been assigned to the See of Arcavica. He actually wouldn't move at all if the position weren’t lucrative. He doesn't want local valets, for he doesn't have the hang of the local lingo. He'll be happy to employ a young serviceable man to help him get on from day to day.”

“I don't want to be anyone's servant!” Merlin had managed fine in life without bowing his head before. He didn't think he could be... servile.

“Look, Buontorno has a thousand faults,” Bernini said, stabbing Merlin with his gaze. “But he pays more than satisfactorily and grants men from humble background opportunities for promotion, as long as his craving for art is satisfied. You'd do well to take this job.”

“Since when do you sell yourself to the highest bidder?” Merlin regretted the words as soon as he had spoken them, but he had felt the need to defend himself from the quick summation of his life and its value.

Bernini knew how to take the blow. “I'm an artist, Merlin, so the answer is all the time.”

Noise coming from the next room indicated Bernini's model was about to come back. The notion that Merlin's stabs at Bernini might have been overheard made him even more aware of their power. Still, he wished Bernini hadn't started on the subject at all. “Well, I'm not ready to do the same.”

Silence filled the room so that noises from the street below washed in. Bernini seemed to use the pause to master the anger that boiled within him. “Turning this opportunity down because of Arthur Pendragon would be a monumentally bad idea.”

The words reopened a wound that hadn't cauterised. Merlin felt like balling up to protect his weaker side. He also felt like giving way to a storm of tears. But he didn't, wrapping himself around a righteous anger that made him want to strike out. It was only because he was ashamed of this riot of emotion that he said, “Well, I'll be going.”

Bernini's model prowled in with the gait of a woman assured of her beauty. She did seem to sense a change in the air even before Merlin had quite stalked away.

“At least think about it,” Bernini called out after him.

****

Rome, 1633

“You obviously ended up going.” That would explain many things, like why Merlin was in fact working for Buontorno.

“I wanted to prove Bernini wrong.” Merlin smiled sadly. “Of course he was absolutely right.”

Arthur understood what making that statement had cost Merlin. But then again, Merlin had always been brave with his feelings. It was something Arthur loved about him. “Bernini lied, then.”

“About what?” A frown etched Merlin's brow. “I don't follow.”

“Once I'd settled the business with my father and uncle—” Arthur had never recovered the fortune he had lost, but he'd at least stopped his uncle from doing any more damage, from stealing more. “—I wrote to Bernini, asked him to pass you a letter. He said he didn't know where you were, that you'd lost touch.”

Merlin looked into the distance. “He was probably trying to protect me from more heartache.” He shrugged. “Besides, I lost touch with him for a while. I was angry at him for seeing through me, for understanding how much I missed you. You can’t guess how badly I wanted to give my new job up in the hopes you'd come back and find me again. ” Merlin's honesty shone in him like a beacon. “But by and by, I learned how to focus on my duties, I read books, I studied, I found how to prove my worth.”

“You're not a footman any longer.” There had been enough hints to prove it.

“I became the Cardinal's private secretary.” Merlin shrugged it all off as if it was no great achievement. “I learnt to live with myself and my broken heart. Eventually I reconnected with Bernini too. Buontorno made a few journeys back to Rome and had learnt to rely on my assistance. So I travelled with him and sought out my old friend. I made amends to Bernini. He was curt at first, understandably, but I think he's forgiven me.”

Arthur nodded, musing about their compared history. When they'd met, Arthur had been an affluent man belonging to the upper gentry. He'd gone on a journey that took him across Europe, finally settling in Rome, where he'd taken up abode with no worries as to how he'd pay his way. Merlin hadn't had all of these advantages and yet they were now equals. “I know it's not my right to ask.” Arthur had bungled their mutual relationship completely, and the heartache he'd caused couldn't easily be healed. “But can I see you again?”

Twisting the hem of his doublet, Merlin looked downwards.

The weight of reality crushed Arthur's hopes. Of course Merlin would refuse. Though life had parted them rather than Arthur's own will, Merlin had suffered enough at his hands. Right now he was doing well, getting ahead. Maybe he even had a new love who was more constant and trustworthy than Arthur had been. Asking had been a folly, a piece of senselessness dictated by feelings that hadn't dwindled a jot, that had, if anything, been fanned by these new meetings. And though he hadn't planned on asking, his heart had overtaken his brain and he had blurted the words. He started apologising, saying, “I understand it's far too late, that the damage I did—”

Merlin turned on his seat so that he was wholly facing Arthur. “I never thought this day would come, Arthur.”

Arthur gulped. “I know.” He found himself unable to say the words he'd striven for. And though he wished for nothing more than the chance to see Merlin again, he couldn't ask once more, not in the face of what Merlin had suffered. “I see.”

“For the longest time I thought I would jump at the merest chance of seeing you again.”

Slowly, like an old man, Arthur stood. “I must go.” He angled himself so he could cast a last glance at Merlin, so he could have one final memory of him. He didn't allow his gaze to linger too long, for that would have hurt like the wounds of a thousand daggers. “I wish all the best for you, Merlin.”

“And then I told myself that you didn't deserve any of that, all of my longing and love and devotion.” Merlin took to his feet too. “Even today I felt that.”

Arthur made as if to go, but Merlin stopped him.

“But that's just the anger talking,” Merlin said, his eyes as wet as the deepest well. “And I won't be prey to my anger.”

Hope and fear mingled in Arthur like discordant notes in a musical composition. “What—?”

“I wish to see you again, Arthur.” Merlin balled his fists as if these words were hard to get out. “That's the true state of my feelings.”

Arthur couldn't ask for promises or guarantees, but he vowed to himself that he would try to only make Merlin happy from now on.

****

Arcavica, Spain, 1626

Arcavica itself was apparently only a titular See; therefore, the bishop's palace stood in a village close to the ancient ruins of the now defunct Roman town. On one side lay broken columns and massive sets of stairs leading to temples that no longer had a roof, and on the other rose the palace itself with its golden facade.

In a way it should have reminded Merlin of Rome. The juxtaposition of ancient and new was similar, the link to antiquity equally present. Yet the place looked and sounded different. This was no urban conglomerate like Rome was. There was no river here offering bounty to the parched land, and no Vatican to make the town a meeting point for international clergy. The native language had some similarities with the Italian Merlin spoke, but those were few and far between, and Merlin had a hard time understanding even the simplest directions. Still, he would have to cope.

Tired from the travelling he had done to reach this spot, he put his bags down. He supposed he would have to learn not only how to understand the people around him, but also how to adapt to this new world.

Most of all he had to make a conscious effort to succeed at this. Even Arthur would want that, and anyway Arthur wasn't here to either praise or rebuke him, so he'd better stick to this one path. Good would come of it. He'd never been one to feel sorry for himself. He'd always tried to smile at whatever life brought his way. This, surely, couldn't be any different.

With a sigh, Merlin picked up his cases and entered the palace. The servant's entrance was steeped in shadow just as the main one was drenched in sunlight, an apt metaphor for the journey he was embarking on. But he would step onwards.

****

Rome, 1633

The Rospigliosi family had a palace in Rome as well as one in Tuscany, where their lands lay. The second of the Rospigliosi brothers had had a religious education and had been introduced to Bernini. The other, Camillo, was the bearer of the family title as well as the estates that went with it.

The villa Rospigliosi was an accumulation of several buildings, a towering group of abodes, the foremost of which jutted out onto the Piazza del Quirinale. It was striking when beheld from a distance; from up close it was downright dwarfing.

Offering up the invitation emblazoned upon his card, Arthur entered the premises. The staircase was a cascade of marble, large enough to allow horses to enter. Arthur had been told that this had happened quite frequently, but there was no such creature in sight now. Noblemen and women were climbing it; prelates dragged their vestments in their wake. Of animals there was no trace.

Without letting himself be enticed by the richness of the décor, Arthur roamed from frescoed room to frescoed room, finally finding Bernini in a vestibule decorated with a life-size painting.

Not stopping in his overall contemplation, Bernini gave him a sideways glance, but didn't speak.

Arthur joined him by the fresco, looking at the way soft cloth draped around the legs of gods and heroes.

“Beautiful to look at, isn't it?” Bernini said, tipping his head back as if he wanted to inspect the upper parts of the design. “Did you find him?”

Arthur was not surprised by the non sequitur. Bernini hadn't really meant to ask his opinion about art. He was ill qualified to give it. “Why did you not tell me where to find Merlin? Back then. You knew and omitted the truth.”

Bernini squinted, then comprehension slowly dawned and he widened his stance. “I thought it opportune.”

“You even made me apologise for my last letter when you knew you were to blame.”

“Your words were unkind; I deserved an apology.” Bernini sounded earnest. “As to Merlin, I acted according to my conscience.”

“And that's all you're going to say about it?” Anger surfaced in Arthur like the first signals of a storm at sea.

“What do you want me to say?” Bernini turned away from the painting so he was looking squarely at Arthur. “I didn’t know his heart wouldn’t mend. I didn't know you'd come back. That was a surprise, shall we say.”

“And my heart? Did you think my heart would mend?” Arthur asked, simmering anger resurfacing before he could quite control it. “If anyone could appreciate how special Merlin was, that was you.”

“You didn't show it at first, did you?” Bernini didn't drop his gaze, his self-defence spirited. “I didn't hear from you for ages, and when you finally did write, so much time had elapsed I assumed you'd never come back!”

“My first letter must have got lost,” Arthur said, choking on the words. “And owning up to the fact that I'd lost nearly everything wasn't easy." His accusation lost steam. He cast his memory back to those days and admitted that he never thought he'd make it back to Italy once he'd lost his riches. It had taken the right opportunities and circumstances, becoming Lord Astolat's secretary, for him to be able to undertake the journey. “You could at least have told me the truth.”

Bernini deflated, his whole body diminishing. “Merlin had a chance, at first with me and then with Buontorno, and that kind of opportunity is once in a lifetime. I didn't want you to ruin that. I didn't want him to pass on that because of you. So I lied.”

What Bernini said made sense. Arthur wouldn't have wanted Merlin to renounce something so vital as gainful employment. Ever since coming into financial difficulties himself, Arthur had a better understanding of the importance of it. Not only that, he wouldn't have wanted Merlin to suspend his life in the hopes Arthur would come back. The way Agravaine had left him, he wouldn't have been able to afford the journey. Astolat had been a godsend. Still, however, he didn't appreciate Bernini's mendacity. “I understand your reasons.” He heaved a painful sigh. “But it wasn't your place to meddle.”

“Probably not.” Bernini looked into the distance. “But I thought it was for the best.”

Arthur tried to sift Bernini's words, understand the implications of them. Perhaps Bernini had thought Merlin would fare better if he put by all notions of Arthur's return. Given that it was mere coincidence—or perhaps destiny—that had caused Arthur to find Merlin again, that might have been sound advice. Or maybe Bernini had wanted Merlin for himself. If you asked Arthur, Merlin had many winning qualities and was desirable in a subtle yet potent way. Maybe he was highly biased, but couldn't help but think that. What if Bernini did too? What if he had tried to get Merlin for himself? After all, he'd been the one who'd discovered him. But then again, Arthur reflected, if he had, he wouldn't have found him a job in Castile. Merlin's return was only due to the fact that Buontorno had been assigned to a new See in Latium.

Arthur didn't know what the truth was. And he realised he didn't want to either inquire or indirectly learn it. He valued Bernini for the artist he was, and didn't want to break with him over their past actions anymore. Besides, there was still something he needed to do. “I need you to sculpt something for a great admirer of yours: Cardinal Buontorno.”

Bernini's eyes narrowed and Arthur supposed Bernini had guessed why his artistry was required. “I'd have to charge him a fortune!”

Arthur shrugged. Buontorno sat on piles of Vatican gold. That way Arthur would have a reason to see Merlin again. “As long as you please him.”

“You can bet I will.” Bernini's eyes rolled with ill-concealed amusement at this turn of events. “As long as you're aware I'll fleece him.”

“I cannot begrudge you that,” Arthur said, extending his hand as a sign of good will. “I hope I'll see you again.”

Bernini cocked his head and his expression more genial than before. “I’m sure we’ll have occasion to meet in the future. You can help me deliver my commission to Buontorno!”

The sounds of Bernini's open laughter followed Arthur down the hall.

*****

Rome, 1633

Arthur and Merlin saw each other again. The first of these meetings happened on a day they were both free from their duties. They didn't go to an inn or winery, they attended no public event, but decided not to meet at either of their abodes. That would be too intimate and they needed to find new common ground, to gauge whether they could salvage a friendship, or perhaps more.

So they took a stroll through Rome, ambling along imposing thoroughfares and smaller side streets, keeping silent at first, starting to talk more as their mileage increased. By the end of the morning they had spoken, with interruptions in between, for at least half an hour. It was more than they had done in a decade.

They tentatively decided to meet again in a while. There would be no rush, no precise intent. They just agreed that they would see each other, without making each other nervous about it.

Though the plan had been to take it easy, Arthur couldn't help but fear that Merlin would change his mind, that he'd come to the decision not to give them a new chance.

Before he could panic, a message came, scrawled in haphazard fashion, but still clear as to meaning. The church choir of Santa Maria Maggiore would perform for a lay audience the following Monday. Cardinal Buontorno had been singing its praises. Would Arthur attend the event with Merlin?

With trembling hands, Arthur scribbled a return message. He had no idea what tone to use, how familiar to be. He wanted to sound friendly and open to more. That was his dearest wish, but he didn't mean to assume Merlin would want the same as he did after all these years. He would behave like Merlin had. Be open, to the point and concise. The rest was for Merlin to decide.

As the song swelled, they shuffled closer, their hands almost touching, and it was such a pleasant sensation that Arthur warmed all over and his heart sang. He wanted to prolong it as much as possible, and he thanked the heavens Merlin didn't put any distance between them. He had no idea whether he was keeping close because, like Arthur, he rejoiced in it, or because he simply hadn't considered scooting further away at all.

As it was, they sat in the shadowed aisle of the church for more than an hour, listening to pure voices singing hymns that soared up towards the heavens. When they left, they dithered in the shadow of the church's portal, and shared a silence that was broken only by shy words. Clumsily, they settled on seeing each other again. The asking was becoming both a ritual and a by-product of the tentativeness of their relationship.

Over the next few weeks they went to the markets, strolled along the Tiber till they were in the fields, or sat in the parks watching people go by.

The more they did this, the more their conversation flowed. They stopped running into silences and started finding ways to communicate. They no longer told each other how sorry they were for the past and what had happened to them. That was a chapter they couldn't change. But they started talking about life, the things they did in their daily routines, the people they met. And gradually it came easier and Arthur ceased second-guessing himself.

He found he had a lot to say. It was commentary to what Merlin had told him, or the myriad different subjects he had been yearning to discuss with someone. Arthur’s life, while full these past years, had lacked a confidant. His family was gone; Lord Astolat, while a good employer, was his superior, and as such he neither gave nor accepted confidences. Arthur had arrears, a well of thoughts to share, so he found himself voicing countless musings that he had kept to himself for too long.

He could have cried for the joy of it, but something stopped him. He didn't want to scare Merlin away with tears. But he felt sure the relief of it showed in his face, for Merlin smiled and patted his back.

“Come to my lodgings,” Arthur said, no breath in his lungs as he uttered a request he suspected would be denied.

Merlin's hand was still warm on him. “Not tonight.”

Arthur's hopes were dashed. His entire form slumped. He had told himself not to entrust his whole sense of happiness to the continuation of his relationship with Merlin. He should have guarded his heart. He should have been more prudent with it. But he had ignored all the cautionary warnings of the more rational part of his brain. And now... Now he didn't think he could recover from this.

“But I will.” Merlin sidled closer to him, his arm wrapped around Arthur. “Next week. I promise.”

****

Rome, 1633

The room was warm. The fire burned merrily behind the grate, lighter at its edges, darker at its core. The screen was iron and ornate, shields of roses twisting together in a tangle that suggested the wildness of faraway places, of mystical gardens no man had access to.

They both held glasses full of wine redolent with the taste of Tuscan hills.

Arthur sipped a mouthful, letting the flavour flood his palate. It was heady and caused his cheeks to flush hot. He looked at Merlin to find Merlin was already making him the object of a close study.

When Arthur realised, he swallowed—loudly. And Merlin laughed a belly laugh that put tears in his eyes.

Even if his cheeks still stung with embarrassment, Arthur's lips softened into a smile. “What, am I so fully ridiculous?”

“No,” Merlin said on a breath. He put his glass down, which he had drunk little from, and added, “I'd just forgotten how handsome you are.”

The flush that had stained Arthur's cheeks spread to his neck, and he suddenly felt as if he'd be more comfortable wearing fewer layers. Except he couldn't start stripping lest Merlin think he was being forward. They hadn't spoken about what would happen if they kept seeing each other—in what way their relationship could evolve. He didn't want to risk their fragile and newfound agreement in the name of a carnal instinct. But he couldn't say that he hadn't daydreamed about a return of flame between them, that he hadn't fantasised about what they would do if their reconciliation was complete.

But Merlin put a hand up, stemming the flow of words before Arthur could voice them. “It's all right. I just meant what I said.”

Arthur nodded, trying to take it levelly. But he couldn't. He couldn't rein in the flow of feeling that simmered under his skin, boiling over the more he thought of the implications of what Merlin had told him. His compliment. He couldn't stop his imagination going to a rosy place wherein the future could replicate the past. Or perhaps, without the complications that had kept them apart, be even better.

Then Merlin stood from his chair, leaned over, cupped his chin, and lifted Arthur's face so they could kiss. Taken wholly by surprise, Arthur's eyes went wide for a moment and he gasped into the kiss.

Their tongues touched when their lips parted in a soft slide of flesh. Arthur let out a choked cry and the kiss deepened; Arthur's sensations intensified at the same time as his thoughts scattered.

This was so sweet and beautiful, more than a memory renewed, rather something like a new beginning.

They briefly parted, to breathe, to rebalance, then Arthur put his glass on the mantel and rose to his feet. Panting slightly, he gazed at Merlin, searching for answers to the questions he couldn't formulate.

And then they were kissing again. The tip of Merlin's tongue grazed Arthur's and Arthur opened up. This was the start of something different; there was sensual intent behind the kiss, a will to push things further, to seek more. A bolt like heat cracked his core. Arthur made a sound that was reminiscent of pain. It was more like the recognition of a wild joy he'd never thought he'd attain again. For a moment, their tongues retreated, a necessary pause during which they smiled at each other, then Merlin flicked his tongue in a small lick and Arthur was again lost.

Grabbing hold of Merlin's doublet, Arthur pulled Merlin closer, his other hand feeling Merlin's back, sliding over the rise of bone, palm flat, downwards to settle on the small of his back. By then they had latched at the mouth, kissing with an intensity Arthur had nearly forgotten was possible.

Little grunts punctuated their motions. They moved closer still, until they seemed to share the same breath. Their chests brushed together, their tongues touched in hungry tangles. Between panting breaths, they started pulling at their clothes in an ill-orchestrated attempt to get to flesh, warm and human and alive. With a few attempts Arthur managed to unfasten the little hooks that held Merlin's doublet close, the little metal hoops snagging on his manicured nails.

At the same time Merlin had undone the knot that closed the top of Arthur's shirt and put his mouth under his jaw, sucking softly with a touch of lips that were only a little bit wet. With a groan he couldn't suppress, Arthur threw his head back. This was devastating. It wasn't just the way the sensation lit him up on the inside, making his heart race and his blood throb with desire; it was the way it was affecting his mind and soul. Arthur had loved Merlin in the past, but now it seemed his love was stronger than before, and Merlin’s perhaps was too. That easy connection of the past and the acute pain of their loss tangled with this new happiness to make their relationship even more painfully beautiful.

With a push Arthur caused Merlin to lose his doublet. It swished to the floor, landing in disorderly fashion on the carpet. His shirt was soft and warm with the heat of Merlin's skin. Before unlacing the strings at the neck, Arthur palmed Merlin's chest, right where his heart was, sensing the echo of its beat and the glow of his body. It calmed him a little, but it also sent him mad with longing.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, and Arthur recognised it for what it was, an invitation to set things in motion, to bring them closer together.

The shirt went with a rustle of cloth. Its disappearance revealed Merlin's torso, its pale expanse with the hint of his ribcage, the tapering that would reveal the sharp cut of his hips when his trousers were undone.

Merlin's scent mixed with the tang of resin from the fire, and Arthur inhaled sharply. It was heady, and Arthur felt for a second delirious with sensation. He wanted so much, and the urgency of his want almost made him unable to act. He simply didn't know where to start.

Something of this must have been clear to Merlin, for he smiled, and, shifting his weight, pulled Arthur close, ridding him of his shirt so that Arthur could feel and not just see. The shock of the contact was so good that Arthur was left reeling.

Their bodies plastered to each other, Merlin bestowed a series of kisses on the corner of his lips. Arthur's muscles bunched and his cock filled. For all his lofty thoughts of pure love, he was but human, and his body responded.

Renewing the kisses Merlin had put to Arthur's face, he reached around, placing his palms on his back, skating them down in passes that awakened Arthur more and more to pleasure.

Like a surge of elements, they crashed together. They clutched and grabbed, caressed and soothed. Fingers skated down the ridge of spines, above belts and, when their breeches were loosened, into their small clothes, groping and cupping, stealing each other's breath with passing touches neither of them made more purposeful because they wanted this reunion to last as long as possible.

So Arthur eased the intensity of their touching, wedged a hand between them to glide it over Merlin's stomach, a safer area if they didn't want their encounter to come to a climax now. Even so they gasped and panted, their skin flushing in reaction to the promise of touch. For a while they stood there, staring into each other’s eyes, hardly able to believe their good fortune. The moment burned with the intensity of their mutual feelings, filled with expectations of what could be. And they held it, appreciating it for what it was, this great blessing that had happened to them twice.

Then they traded caresses that came in different ways, awakening various sensations. They stroked and fondled, grazed lips to body parts, and teased and stroked. They eased each other down when they became too worked up, doing so with murmured endearments and spoken promises, with a suspension of the attentions they were giving each other.

But as the minutes elapsed, they found they couldn't stave off the inevitable. They couldn't be rational about it, so the eagerness between them mounted, the call for passion, the bare want.

It got frantic, so that there was little rhyme or reason to the way they came into contact. Their hands traced new and old paths, feeling texture and shape, gathering sensory inputs. They hungered so much that finding release seemed to be impossible. Their longing to have everything at once appeared impossible to satisfy.

This way of loving each other shook Arthur like an earthquake. In the past, they had had long sessions and enjoyed each other with all the passion of youth. But now it all seemed to mean even more. After having experienced the loss, this new chance represented a golden dream so fragile, it needed to be protected.

They gave in to their feelings. With a few moves they were rid of the rest of their clothing. Their breathing haywire, they took a moment to take each other in in the fullness of their nudity.

Tension churned between them, almost perceptible in the still air of the room. It was like the thunder of war; like the prelude to a storm they had conjured. Nerves tingling, they reached for one another, laid each other down on the carpet spread in front of the fire.

Moving things forward, Merlin climbed on top of Arthur, his breath sweet on him, the ridge of his cock nudging Arthur's skin, sending his thoughts skittering with want. Shivers ran between them as they stared into each other’s eyes. “We need...” Arthur trailed off, unable to communicate any sensible thought.

They understood each other all the same. They used what they had, rubbing oil in; the thought alone of what they were about to do to each other sent Arthur's heartbeat thundering in his ears. It was both easier and harder than it used to be. They had retained a memory of each other and that eased proceedings – made them act in tandem. At the same time it seemed like this would make or break them, and that was why they trembled and shook, why they were none too steady.

When the tip of Merlin's cock breached him, Arthur just breathed and pushed against it.

Eyes half clenched, forehead worked in sweat, Merlin said, “I didn't think we'd get back to this.”

“Regretting it already?” Trying to summon his wits to answer wasn't easy for Arthur. But this was something they needed to voice.

“No,” Merlin said. “Not ever.”

“Good.” Arthur was hoarse with emotion, but even so there were words that he had to speak. “I have waited for this for ten years, Merlin. I have waited, and I will always wait for you.”

Merlin took advantage of the moment of stillness between them and then he drew back, drifting to the edge, before pushing back in. There was friction and a sensation of pleasant fullness, and something more—love.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, his hands at Merlin's flank slipping in sweat.

Steadily Merlin traced a pattern of advance and retreat inside him. And it was amazing and blissful and so many things more that Arthur had no words to describe it. If he were a poet, maybe he'd try. But then again maybe no poet was needed here, but an artist of great skill, one capable of turning stone into raw feeling, mute matter into poses good enough to convey passion into the eons. He'd once been grateful Bernini had never captured the intimacy of passion between them, the real rapture of Merlin caught in the throes of ecstasy, but maybe in some guise... The thought flitted in his brain and then vanished into the eddy of instinct.

He pulled Merlin to him and kissed the side of his forehead and let his hands probe his buttocks and his sides, almost feeling the pull of bone and sinew as Merlin pushed in and out, his pace frantic, his words lost to a litany of romantic utterances.

When he slipped, Merlin propped himself up again, and they chuckled together, and then they put their minds to re-establishing the lost pace.

The letting go was equally glorious. Their bodies slapped together, the sound of it unmistakable and lewd. They bruised each other with the weight of their bodies; they marked each other with their greedy grasps.

Tears stung at Arthur's eyes, and his cock felt like an unsustainable ache, so he gave himself a tug, which sent him coming in wet ropes that felt euphoric, a flood of pleasure colouring his perception of the world.

Merlin's voice was coarse when he gave his last stab. And when he came he bit his lip and crumpled on top of Arthur, ribcage rising and falling and only stilling with Arthur's quieting caresses.

Before Merlin's body had quite cooled, Arthur said, “I'll never leave you again. You know that now, don't you?”

Taking care to keep their legs tangled, Merlin slid off him. “Yes. Yes, I do. And in return I promise to never doubt you again, to give you my heart fully, whether destiny keeps us together or sunders us”

Arthur looked at the ceiling, at the friezes that ran around the base of the chandelier. “I like the sound of that.”

Merlin traced patterns on Arthur's torso with his hands. “Me too.”

That satisfied Arthur. They had gained enough maturity to know their own hearts. They had overcome their separation. He couldn't predict the future, no man could, but he would trust to their trying in good faith to make good on their vows, and that was all he could do.

Arthur said, “Then we are pledged to one another?”

“For eternity.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> The works of art here described are real and were roughly produced in the time frame presented by the story. So the David was an earlier work compared to the bust of Camilla Barbadoni, which has been dated 1626. Even so, I took the licence to play about a little.
> 
> Squares, palaces and villas existed as described in the decade 1623-1633. 
> 
> Remise is an obsolete word for coachhouse.


End file.
